


Broken to Pieces

by Redfire_Dragon



Category: Transformers - All Media Types, Transformers Generation One
Genre: Abuse, Broken, But you can't understand how glorious the dawn is, Dark Jazz, Dark Jazz is scary, Gen, Horror, I have to go to jail for writing this, Implied Torture, It is going to get better, Mini-Bots to the RESCUE!, Reprogramming, This fic is about escape, Token Evil Teammate, Torture, until you've seen just how dark the night is
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-08-27
Updated: 2017-11-08
Packaged: 2018-12-20 05:36:13
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 10
Words: 34,469
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11914296
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Redfire_Dragon/pseuds/Redfire_Dragon
Summary: "How many pieces were left of his original frame? So much, so many parts had been damaged, ruined beyond repair and replaced as this interminable war had worn on and on. How much was actually him any more?"In which Prowl is broken and Jazz is his keeper, and very dark.So few people write dark Jazz, it's always dark Prowl instead, dunno why.





	1. Bits and Pieces

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Two terrible ideas that jumped me when I tried to go to sleep the other night, wrote the whole thing the next day in a disturbed fervor.  
>  
> 
> Pretty sure being made out of parts of all your dead friends can't be good for your mental health.  
> "Hey Jazz? Remember Blaster?"  
> "Yeah he's my best friend."  
> "Well since you're t-cog broke I'm giving you his. Now you'll always have something with you to remember him by."  
> "Wait what?" T_T
> 
> Note: while this is a good illustration of my point, this is _extremely_ not how the realm this fic lives in works.

Prowl stared up at the ceiling of the medbay, static and strange visual phenomena, changing horizontal lines of color and darkness, flickering in and out over the fragmented visual feed coming in from his shattered left optic. It was interesting to watch, his protocols prioritizing the moving image as something that might be alerting of danger and frequently overlaying the distorted feed over the clear visual from his undamaged optic to the point where he was effectively blind. So much like the world, broken, malfunctioning. An endless sea of cracked and broken frames, some frozen by death while others still struggled through the glitches and errors, through the pain, blinded by grief and suffering but still stubbornly trying to function.

It had been some time since he had been wounded on the battlefield. As chief tactician most of his work was planning, sometimes real time for battles across the planet, sometimes just missions or battle plans, defense strategies, plans and back up plans and predicting future Decepticon attacks or troop movements. Still, every once in a while, he ended up on the battlefield, usually deep behind the lines but placed to oversee, watch, listen, receive the reports, and move the soldiers about, battle computer running hot with continuous calculations as he directed the battle, preserving Autobot lives and ensuring the Decepticons were beaten and broken, being driven back by superior coordination and response to the changing circumstances.

He was rarely allowed on the battlefield for this reason, that now he lay in the medbay damaged and staring at the crazed flickering colors and the ceiling. Megatron himself knew how valuable the tactician was to the Autobot cause and few Decepticons could resist the urge to go after him in the hopes of gaining favor in the warlord's eyes, often taking incredible risks in the pursuit of that. But circumstances had been unusual and so he'd ended up directing the battle in person. While watching people die was always awful, there was something clean and pure about seeing it in person instead of just hearing about it. As if it were more respectful for him to be there to witness their deaths than to simply hear about it as a list of numbers after the battle.

And there was also something incomprehensibly satisfying about shooting Decepticons himself, for once being allowed to strike out physically at the ever-threatening enemy instead of just mentally. It made him feel like he was contributing, as an Autobot, an individual, instead of just as a glorified calculator. Illogical as it was, it felt better to be fighting on the front instead of hiding deep in the command center, listening to live reports and directing the battle from there. It was as if he were honoring the countless dead by allowing his own life to be put at risk also. A risk with the added benefit of increased efficiency in his controlling and plotting out the battle. It made the shadows go quiet for a time too, the dead not haunting him so badly when he was willing to stand in the same danger he had put them in, that had led to their deaths.

But still the frequent result of such excursions was him ending up here, in the medbay, broken parts and damaged systems, waiting to be repaired and suffering a varying drop in his efficiency until he was fully repaired once again. He was too tempting a target no matter how deep behind the frontliners, something he used against the Decepticons time and time again, but still put him in more risk than the others of the command staff considered wise, not while he carried the all important battle computer. But still, when he could he tried, accepting the physical damage as the price for keeping the accusing shades at bay.

How many pieces were left of his original frame? So much, so many parts had been damaged, ruined beyond repair and replaced as this interminable war had worn on and on and on and on. None of his armor was the same for certain, and some of the struts were not originally his either, perhaps most of them. His fuel pump, was he the second owner or the third? Coolant systems, auto repair, audials, a myriad of internal mechanisms all different from what he'd been made with. He'd stopped asking about what they put in him a long time ago. He didn't want to know. It was illogical, if the parts worked it should not matter where they came from, but he still felt attached to his original parts. His damaged left optic was one of the few parts of him left he was certain was truly his. He hoped they would be able to repair it instead of immediately replacing it.

It had been there when his spark had first come alight, one of the two his spark had first peered out at the world through. When he'd first come online the world had seemed so bright and clear, seeing the good and the beauty. But as time had passed things had become dark and grim and war had come. Now, now the world was different, he couldn't even tell what it was most of the time. His data and numbers described such terrible terrible things, while logic and reason no longer quite matched up to what he could see of the world. Everything was broken and fractured, confusion and interference, and this endless void that gaped between him and the world, leaving understanding always just out of reach. Sometimes he would strain and focus, as he was doing now with the broken optic, and he would start to be able to make things out, start to get the shape of things. But then it would break again, everything stained with darkness and spilled energon, fizzing into bars of light and darkness and buzzing static.

He wanted to keep his optic, it was his, and in that bitter moment he felt it showed him a more accurate portrayal of the world than the one that was whole but had been crafted or salvaged from a greyed out husk. He didn't want to see the world through dead bots' optics. What if it showed him what they saw, instead of what he would see? Did a part of a bot's spark linger in the parts they left behind?

He knew something was wrong with his processor. These were not normal or healthy thought patterns. But they were his, completely his, come of his own self and not placed there by some foreign power, unlike all those parts and pieces that had been made by meticulous craftsmen or had outlived their previous owners. It was the war that had done this, an endless panorama of death, broken and shattered frames, the dead pillaged for parts and the living turned to ghouls cobbled together of the parts of the dead and carefully machined bits and pieces, converted further and further until nothing remained of the original bot, just a jumble of second hand parts and unsparked metal that still thought it was itself, never having noticed the gradual change until it was too late and they had been completely changed, or perhaps never discovering it at all. He couldn't decide which was worse.

If he died would they just put in a new spark? The battle computer was what was important about him, would they take it out and put it into a new frame? That would be quite difficult, the integration of such a powerful piece of equipment was complex and intricate. Far easier would be to just place a new spark into the dead frame it was already wired into, complete with the databanks and memories of how to use it. A shudder went through him as he completed the thought. What if that had happened already? What if he was just a cast off spark placed inside this shell to preserve the Autobot's most precious weapon? Trapped in a frame that was not his own, with the memories and programming of a bot long dead. What if he wasn't the first? How many sparks would be an acceptable cost to keep the battle computer running? So many deaths prevented each orn, what price was a couple sparks compared to millions? Was he the second Prowl? Or the fifth? The twentieth? A soft keening began deep in his throat.

No! No, the Prime would never allow it. Not even Decepticons used spark transplant to bring back the dead. It might not be possible, a greyed frame having once lived might not accept a new, foreign spark. Focus on that, don't let yourself believe anything else. If he believed anything else he wouldn't just break, he'd shatter to pieces. They needed him, needed the computer to end this war, he couldn't break or the war would consume them all. He couldn't allow himself to break. Whatever lies he had to tell himself, whatever it took, he had to hold together, had to keep the numbers and tactics running.

 

 

 

The medic came over to the special ops agent with obvious trepidation. Jazz couldn't help smirking as he danced a small blade over knuckles and the back of his hands. "We've repaired him but... He... He needs another, um, treatment." The medic said, voice making it clear that he would not personally consider something so terrible a 'treatment' but was too afraid of the agent to call it anything else. "He is starting to lose it again."

Jazz's smirk began to spread into a sinister grin. "Ah'll take care of it." He said, licking his lips as he turned his gaze toward the ex-enforcer. Earlier, much earlier, in the war, back when they were just starting to realize that things would not be settled any time soon, the brilliant tactician had begun to lose it. He'd shown so much promise, masterful plans and tactics defying the odds time and again. Without his work the war would have ended ages ago, and not in the Autobot's favor. But then the pathetic creature had begun to break down, something about too many people dying, brilliant mind starting to vanish under an oily muck of emotional baggage.

Things had gotten quite bad for a time there, real touch and go, and they had tried so many things to get the tactician back to fully functional. It had been laughable really, as if kind words and psychiatrists ever did any _real_ good. He'd been ready to ditch, the survivor in him itching to escape before the less skillful tacticians could sentence them all to a slow death. But then Optimus had come to him, knowing the spy's reputation for being able to get the job done no matter the task, and given him care of the tactician with the task to fix him, no questions asked.

Oh it had been glorious to peel that weakness, those emotional entanglements, the broken personality away to re-expose that brilliant mind. The tactician had been returned to work, the invaluable battle computer once again fully functional and doing its job better than ever. Perhaps the others were upset, disturbed even, by the shift from his admittedly weak personality before to something that was practically non-existent, but the tactician was turning the tide of the war again, battle plans and tactics preserving the war efforts. No one dared ask what the special ops agent had done to get such results, and Jazz offered nothing beyond the occasional vicious smile that unsettled any Autobot who saw it.

Jazz strolled over to the medical berth where the head tactician lay, silky smirk on his lips. "Get up Prowler, time ta go." He purred, watching as the tactician's head jerked slightly, optics going blank as he recognized the voice of his master. Sensor wings vibrated slightly and mechanically the mech got up from the medical berth, responding automatically to the command. Jazz reached out, delicately stroking the mech's faceplate with unsheathed claws to no response. It was no fault of his that the solution he'd found to their problem was so enjoyable. "Come along." He ordered and headed back to his soundproofed quarters where he could perform the required 'maintenance' in peace. The head tactician followed just a step behind, silent, obedient, optics empty.

A couple orns and one medbay visit later this resurgence would be ended and the tactician would be back to full efficiency.

Jazz would enjoy this. He always did.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sometimes I just have to write horror. I don't know why. I have to go to jail now for writing this.


	2. Initial Assessment

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> On the nature of Power and Control

Jazz sauntered into his quarters. He was no officer but as special ops he'd had a modest suite especially after he had been given the responsibility for repairing the Autobot's prized computer. He'd insisted he needed the extra room and the desperate Autobots had been willing to give him anything he'd asked. Oh that had been a beautiful moment, even now, just thinking of it made him groan deep inside. The Autobot leader, the great and terrible Prime, the mighty arch-foe of Megatron himself, begging Jazz to save him, to save them all. Fix the broken toy, we'll give you anything, do whatever it takes. Oh the power of that moment. Jazz let himself pause a few strides into his main room, indulging himself as he relived the memories as his pet followed into the room, soft steps silent and coming to a halt just a single step behind, his distance perfectly maintained for the entire trip.

The tactician was currently in what Jazz called 'locked safe mode'. He could see and hear and observe his surroundings, perfectly aware, but forbidden from reacting to anything. A Decepticon could have walked up to him and torn him apart and he wouldn't have twitched to defend himself. Jazz could have gouged his optics out and the creature would hardly have been able to even scream. The little tactician was only allowed to react to follow orders or answer direct questions from his master. He wasn't even allowed to focus his optics, or track even his master with them, until he had been given permission. All the energy, all the focus of his frame was on his master, awaiting instructions. He had been told to follow so he had followed, moving exactly with Jazz, every motion perfectly in sync because of that utter, undivided focus.

Jazz turned to regard his toy with that smug smirk on his lips, watching as the head tactician did exactly nothing. Moving carefully, claws out, he reached out for the mech's face, gently stroking the sharp tips along the very edges of the optics. The tactician's vents didn't even hitch, he had not been given permission to react, but there was a tremor in his EM field, not even a true pulse of emotion, just a faint trembling that was echoed in his sensor wings to indicate the intense distress he felt. The little praxian knew what it was like to have sharp claws dig his optics out, Jazz had taught him long ago, and even though he remembered, even though his frame remembered, he held still because Jazz had not given him permission to react, even to flinch, yet.  _This_  was control. Jazz didn't even have to say a word and he had full power over his well trained little pet.

Of course there were other settings, other 'modes' that he had trained his little pet to. Sometimes he wanted the flinching, and screams were always delicious, or to feel the tactician's field melt into molten terror at what Jazz might be doing to him. Oh yes, so many perfectly delicious things he could do with his little pet, and he was in control of them all. He had all the power and the tactician had none.

"Bleed for me." Jazz said abruptly, his vibro blade appearing in one hand as if by magic. He handed it to the empty optic-ed tactician who took it easily, never shifting his gaze from the empty space in front of him as he brought the blade over to the gap in his armor at the opposite wrist joint, moving it carefully around until the sharp edge rested against a fuel line. A small incision was made and the blade drawn away, the hand holding it going down to rest limply at his side while the hand with the injured wrist stayed exactly where it was, offered for his master's inspection. Jazz smirked and took the hand in his, digging his fingers into the gap in the armor to tease at the damaged fuel line, smearing his fingers with energon. Jazz let out a soft grunt of pleasure, teasing at wires then pulling his fingers free and licking them clean. The praxian's living energon tasted somewhat different from that of others' he'd tasted. As far as he could tell it was a frame type difference but he hadn't yet had a chance to sample that of another praxian, they were too rare. But maybe someday.

"I'm feeling generous today, so how about... 25%?" He suggested in a sweet purr. The praxian's optics widened, flaring slightly in distress, at the implication that 25%, a painfully low level at the best of times, was generous in view of the sins he was to be punished for. It meant that there was great suffering to come, that things were quite serious indeed. But Jazz had not given permission for such a display of emotion and a soft frown came to his lips as he considered what to do, how to punish this lapse.

A flare of mortal terror overcame his toy's field. It was raw and powerful, and mechanisms inside the narrow frame ground together as it fought both to flinch and shudder and hold completely still all at the same time. The optics were fixed dead ahead, wide, blank, terrified, entire frame vibrating slightly from the internal grindings.

Jazz let out a soft groan, letting his pleasure flow out into his field. Oh his pet was so good, so perfectly delicious. He might lose control enough to let his distress be visible while in locked mode at the idea of being bled out to so close to the level where medical intervention could become necessary, but it was Jazz's frown, small and just barely there that sent the tactician into a true paroxysm of terror, every last preservation protocol within him shrieking to appease his master, to mitigate the displeasure. _This_  was was power, _this_  was control, _this_  was ownership.

Jazz let out a soft purr and stroked dark fingers along his pet's shoulder. "You are forgiven. This time." He said, rewarding his little toy for the display, he'd enjoyed it far far too much not to give the little thing that much. Jazz was rewarded with a pulse of earnest, spark deep gratitude that suffused the praxian's field, one of the few expressions allowed while in 'locked' mode. It was allowed because Jazz loved the taste of the honest gratitude and his little pet was always so earnest in his gratitude for any reprieve from his deserved punishments.

"You may use your computer for the bleeding. When you have finished go and put on the chains." The deep gratitude slowly faded away into the usual blankness of the tactician's field and Jazz watched with a sly smirk as the mech carefully made an incision, a deep one, drawing the blade a long way up a major fuel line in his wrist, perfectly calculated with his computer so that by the time his auto repair systems had managed to stop the bleeding his fuel levels would be down to the percentage required by his master. Without his computer it was trickier, mistakes more likely to be made, and thus more punishments due. But Jazz was feeling merciful at the moment and this was still just the initial assessments, a time to go through rote patterns, check to see how strictly obedient his pet was, how unhindered his programming was by things like personality. So far his pet was doing pretty well, but the reprogramming he'd put the tactician through all that time ago had been so well crafted it did not suffer much decay even over long periods of time without interacting with his master.

Bots, all of them it seemed, functioned under the belief that to reprogram someone you had to hack them first. They didn't understand that, exposed to the correct stimulus, a bot could be compelled to reprogram _themselves_  in any way you wanted. Now _that_  was power. And Jazz laughed at all the world because they hadn't the slightest clue. Megatron, so desperate to rule, Starscream, so desperate to dominate, Optimus, so desperate to enforce his ideas on society, and of all of them, Jazz was the one who knew _true_  power. He had discovered it, it was his, and he had his lovely little praxian wound around his every thought and inclination. So ironic, these mechs of such great and awesome power and strength, and yet he, little dangerous underestimated sneak-thief spy Jazz, had _absolute power_  over the little praxian tactician who's brilliant little mind decided victory and defeat, life and death, for every bot in the war. And Optimus Prime hadn't just _handed_  the little tactician over to Jazz to have power over, the Prime had _begged_  him to. To take the pitiful creature apart and rebuild him into what was needed. To be the tactician's keeper, his absolute master, to take _full control_  of him. Jazz groaned unintentionally, visor flickering, the light behind it burning white hot as just the act of thinking these things over nearly drove him into an electrical overload, every circuit burning and crackling with excess power. He needed release.

His gaze flicked to the tactician, crouched on the floor, still fumbling slightly with the shackles on the floor as he attached them to his ankles. Clumsily, a sign that his little pet had been good and had shut the tactical computer back down after making the incision required of him. It took his pet a while after it had shut down before his motions would become smooth and natural again. Close, but still not enough to push him over the edge. Jazz slunk closer, motions smooth and predatory. His prey did not look up, optics focused on his task as required, but the sensor wings had begun to vibrate again with tension, with fear. And ever so slightly they had shifted to focus on Jazz, so small the untrained optic would not have noticed. But Jazz noticed, and he licked his lips, because he had not authorized such a movement from his pet. This was an opening. A hand snapped out, grasping one of the disobedient wings tight, claws retracted so the ends of his pressing fingers would dent rather than pierce. The tactician paused for the briefest moment, a tiny flinch at the attack, and then continued his work, snapping one of the shackles closed and moving trembling digits to the other. After all he had not been given permission to pause in the execution of his task. Jazz continued his attack, coming in close to the praxian following the attack, electricity dancing across his armor in soft cracklings. "So naughty. You know I have to punish you for that." He whispered close to his pet's audial and felt the tiny spike of fear and dread in the praxian's field that he couldn't manage to suppress.

Jazz overloaded, the electricity rushing and surging throughout his entire frame, exploding out of every crack and crevice of his armor. His frame jerked and spasmed, dancing with the lightning, and he shoved it into the praxian, making the smaller mech jerk and twitch as well. So close, their electricals so intertwined as he overloaded into his pet's systems, as he dissolved into the ecstasy, Jazz could feel the despair and helplessness that filled the tactician's entire existence. It was delicious, the final perfect edge to his overload.

Jazz came back to the realm of the fully conscious slowly, enjoying the lazy euphoria that buzzed through his cooling circuits. He was lying partially atop his little pet, who was staring blankly ahead, unmoving, where the agonized convulsions of the shocks Jazz had shoved into him had left him, awaiting instructions but not so insolent as to expect them. Jazz got his hands under him and pushed himself up, hovering over the tactician. Carefully he reached out one hand and stroked it tenderly along the praxian's jaw, a delicate caress one might have expected between lovers. There was a tiny shift in the run noise of the tacticians internal systems but no other reaction, Jazz had not yet given permission for even the simplest reactions. "Why have you been punished?" Jazz asked softly, a kind bereaved sort of lilt to his voice.

"Because I deserve to be punished master." The praxian replied in a voice that wasn't so much a monotone as a despairing emptiness, a vacuum of feeling that would, during this session, slowly swallow up the emotional detritus that had settled on his beautiful perfect empty little pet.

Jazz stroked his pet's jaw again, marveling at his beauty once again. "That is right." He said softly and slowly got back to his feet. He waited a moment, testing to see if the praxian would move without permission but he did not. Good. It seemed it would not take too much to get his pet back to full functionality, he was not making the impetuous mistakes of thinking for himself. "Return to your task." Jazz said and the tactician slowly straightened, optics focusing on the remaining shackle, and then bent back over, carefully fastening it around his other ankle. That done the praxian straightened again, though remained in the crouch, hands drifting to lay limp on the floor at the end of limp arms, optics unfocused directly ahead, awaiting his master's next command. A small pool of energon had formed, slightly smeared, on the ground at the mech's pedes from the careful incision in his fuel line. Jazz stared at the puddle for a while then knelt, taking the injured wrist in one hand. He watched as the energon slowly leaked from the damaged line peeking through the exposed joint. Letting out a soft hmm of pleasure he lifted it to his lips and sucked on the injury, relishing the taste of the tactician's very lifeblood, feeling the tiny shuddering vibrations of horror and distress that was all that remained of his pet's frame's natural reactions to the treatment while in this 'locked' mode. Jazz was in control, Jazz had all the power.

After a while he let the hand drop, the edge of hunger gone. Perhaps he would refuel now, though not from his pet, he wasn't really in the mood for that this orn, even if draining the tactician's fuel level from the 90-80% it had been when released from medbay to the 25% he had requested was quite a waste of energon. Oh well, sacrifices were made. Perhaps he would set something up to collect part of what was being bled out to feed to the praxian later. That was usually pretty fun.

Jazz went over to a lever on the wall and flipped it. Immediately the chain connecting to the shackles fastened to the praxian's ankles began to retreat into the ceiling. Jazz fiddled with a control panel next to the lever, adjusting the settings as the tactician was dragged up until he was hanging in the air by his ankles, frame limp, optics staring emptily straight ahead. Jazz adjusted the final height until the ends of the tactician's digits were just a breath away from touching the floor. It would take some time for the mech's fluid systems to adjust to the reversal in gravity, but it would. No the true distress to a Cybertronian about being hung upside down wasn't the energon rushing to your helm (well it was during the first joor or so until the systems adjusted) but the strain it put on the joints, as it pulled them in ways they were not designed to be pulled, especially having their entire weight supported by the ankle joints, slowly stretching out points that were only ever designed to be compressed. The oldest models could be permanently crippled by being hung upside down for a couple orns, but the design flaw had been worked on and now it required actual effort to cripple, at least if you wanted to do it quick. But it was still painful, in a way that started small but grew and grew.

When he had first used this punishment on his little pet though, he'd made a marvelous discovery. Praxian sensor wings were especially vulnerable to being upside down, the strong but intricate joints that allowed them such a wide range of motion unable to cope with the strain of gravity reversal for long periods of time. It only took an orn and a half being hung upside down with the wings unsupported, full weight on the joints, to warp the metal. Four orns and surgery was required to fix it, the damage too great for auto repair systems to ever fully correct on their own. Of course by that time the praxian in question would have had to find a way to block out or fully disconnect the data influx from that part of their sensor net or they would be literally blinded by the pain, sensors throughout their frame failing and sparking as they screamed endlessly, vocalizer destroyed into nothing.

Jazz let out a soft groan and sighed. Such wonderful times they'd had, him and his little pet. But for now, this was just part of the warm-up, the assessment of his pet's state of mind in preparation of fixing him, hollowing out those nasty emotions and attachments so he could do his all important work. Jazz went over, closer to the tactician, walking around him slowly and admiring him from every angle. He really was a lovely frame all in all, especially so lifeless and utterly compliant, an empty datapad waiting to be filled with whatever his master required of him. Jazz reached out, stroking plating, teasing joints, tweaking bits of wire here and there, testing to see if his little pet would remember himself and refrain from unauthorized reactions. He did and Jazz was pleased. What a well trained little pet. He let out a contented sigh and decided to give his pet a treat for his obedience. "Good." He said simply and savored that delicate flare of earnest gratitude that came off of the praxian.

The next part was waiting, something Jazz did not always enjoy, but anticipation on the other hand... He sauntered off toward the kitchenette his quarters held to get some energon. He would refuel and rest, perhaps even recharge or listen to some music, leave his pet to dangle for now, avoiding all interaction with the creature for a prolonged period, as was procedure for this part of the initial assessment. There were plenty of things he could do, he might even go out, wasn't there going to be a party later on for winning that last battle thanks to his pretty little praxian tactician? Parties were fun, and it would be a great way to kill some time before the next part of working on his little pet. There were quite a lot of options really, Jazz would not be bored while he waited for this part of the assessment to reach its end.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trying to decide if I should write out the party scene. So disturbing...
> 
> They are having a party, because _Prowl_ led them to victory and saved lives, while Prowl is locked in an unofficial torture room and his abuser goes to the party to have fun with everyone else
> 
> But it might be a good way to get some insight into what the other Autobots see... how they feel about the whole Jazz/Prowl thing  
> the ones that even know there is anything going on there at all


	3. The Party

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The most dangerous monsters are the ones who look like normal people... right up until they don't. And by then it's too late.
> 
> Let's hear a bit about how things look from the outside. And who better than happy bot Bumblebee?
> 
> Kudos to Im_The_Doctor (Bofur1), who introduced me to the idea of Mini-bot paces and made me fall in love with all the mini-bots. Especially the first pace.

Bumblebee hummed cheerily. A party, an actual party. But it had been a pretty spectacular victory. That tactician, Prowl right? He was _incredible_. They'd been horribly outnumbered, and there had been dozens of Seeker trines in the skies, all attacking at once. But Prowl had been quietly calm, silent except when speaking his orders in that even monotone. He'd directed the soldiers seamlessly, working directly with individuals even, seeming to see all and hear all, and making exactly the right decision every single time. With his expert directions hardly any Autobot got caught in Seeker strafing, and many that had not been able to move out of range still managed to find ways to frequently get under nearby Decepticons, accepting the lesser damage of grounder attacks or being slightly flattened, rather than the more dangerous strafing runs of the Seekers. And Seekers had fallen, crashing to the ground badly injured if not offlined, every pass they'd made. It had been incredible, absolutely incredible.

He'd thought they were all going to die when they'd arrived on the scene. There had been an alert over the intercoms to the whole base of Iacon and that calm collected voice had declared that Fort Twineline was about to suffer a serious attack and that reinforcements were needed. A list of names had then been rattled off of those who were going to be part of the relief force, to leave in half a joor. There had been a wild scramble and in half a joor they'd all set off, a surprisingly small group when you realized how big a fight they were charging into, led by that tactician Prowl, and the Prime's TiC HardEdge. Their instructions had been strange, especially the whole 'if Prowl orders you to do _anything_ , do it that very instant, don't question don't hesitate' part, but the results had spoken for themselves.

It was a five joor drive, slowed by some of the heavy hitters (some the rare anti-aircraft vehicles) but they arrived on the battlefield within _half a joor_ of the Decepticons themselves. Bumblebee had been amazed at that, that somehow the Autobots known so far ahead of time when the supposedly secret attack would hit, long enough ahead to get reinforcements there before the small fort had fallen. After that, after first contact with the enemy, everything was a blur. But battle was always a blur. Shooting, running, punching, kicking, running more, shooting. And he'd noticed, in that way of his that his superiors said would make him a good agent, that while HardEdge had led the charge, had been technically 'in charge', it was _Prowl_ who made the plans, who ran the battle. It was Prowl who had seen Bumblebee's squad about to be cut off and sent Sunstreaker and Sideswipe to break through the Decepticon ranks, to pull the squad in closer to the main line before they'd lost anyone (though two had been temporarily offlined and dragged back to the medics).

They were outnumbered three to one, and the reinforcements had been cut off from the fort, but somehow, as if by a miracle, they had fought back, the entire army working as a single whole at key moments, taking down Seeker after Seeker and blasting the Decepticons back before driving them off entirely. Bumblebee had heard tales about what happened when Prowl was on the battlefield, how he had been blessed by Primus to be able to see the future, to aid the Prime in protecting His people. After that battle Bumblebee was willing to make room in his mind at least of the possibility. It had been incredible. He'd found himself glancing over to where the tactician stood, standing on one of the antiaircraft gunners on the highest point he could find, a black and white flag with the crimson Autobrand on the hood of his chassis standing high and tall and shooting the slag out of any Decepticon who dared get close while he ran the entire battle, every squad, every soldier, every gun, of the reinforcements and those stationed in the fort alike.

Prowl had been amazing, _was_ amazing. It almost seemed strange that he wasn't an actual commander. But then again, there had been no fire in his voice at any time. Commander HardEdge had the whole 'leader voice' thing down, almost as good as Optimus himself, so it made sense that he was technically in charge of the battle.

And now, instead of being dead, indeed their total losses had been less than half of what the Decepticons had left grey on the field (and who knew how many more offlined on the way home), they were having a party. Bumblebee was glad his leg had healed enough he'd been released in time to attend. He'd only recently been transferred to the Iacon base and this was the first party he'd had a chance to attend. He'd have eaten his own pedes if he'd been forced to miss it, even if his leg was still a bit sore.

Music pulsed through the mess hall, making the floor thrum and thump pleasantly, a beat that just begged to be danced to. Bumblebee let out a bit of a chuckle feeling it buzz through his struts, it almost seemed to energize his tired frame and his optics were bright as he looked around. His jaw dropped, decorations, bright colored strips of foil were everywhere, wound around and spread between light fixtures and glittering as multi colored lights flickered and danced from moving light towers set on tables, almost like a laser show (though far less deadly or reminiscent of battle). Bumblebee hadn't seen anything so cheery in... well since before the war really. Yeah some of the other places he'd been stationed had parties, or you could find one in cities earlier in the war, but these decorations and stuff? Someone had put a lot of time and effort into this, probably a whole lot of someones.

That music was amazing, and with all the tables pushed against the sides there was plenty of room for dancing and indeed there were already quite a few doing so. Bumblebee realized his pedes were tapping already and grinned, giving in to the pulsing beat, and began to dance. He lost himself in the bright colors, the flashing lights, the fluttering foil creations. He wasn't really _good_  at dancing, but then who was when war meant no practice? Except a lot of the bots here seemed pretty good at it, or at least not so clumsy as himself. But it was still fun, and there were quite a few times when several bots would start a group dance to one of the songs and drag Bumblebee into it with them. It was fun and exciting and the minibot was sometimes half tossed from one partner to the next as his shorter legs occasionally had trouble keeping up with the longer legged Autobots.

It was so much fun it took him a while to realize part of it was the others trying to help keep the weight off his injured leg, and started to pick up on how the bots danced differently with partners depending on what injuries they were still recovering from if they had any. That should have depressed him, been a sinking reminder of war and battle and the grim realities of their lives, but instead he felt a welling of joy and appreciation in his spark. The Autobots here really cared about each other, so many of them working to help make sure everyone had a good time, got to dance at least a little even if they still had metal casts on or were partially immobilized. He even saw someone dancing with a positively delighted bot in a wheelchair. It was a celebration of survival, of the hopes they held for the future, a future victories like this gave them glimpses of. There was hope and concern and kindness here.

After a while, during one of the lulls where he was dancing by himself, Bumblebee retreated from the dance floor. He felt pleasantly tired, not much yet, just a little, and headed over to one of the refreshment tables. Cubes of high grade were set out, of a couple colors and flavors, mostly home brews but one or two that seemed pre-war. There was also a platter of additives and with a cheery grin Bumblebee took a purple cube and sprinkled it with some zinc and just a touch of nickle. He took a careful sip, delicious, and drifted a little ways away to watch as bots danced or sat at tables or even stood, chatting, laughing, smiling. It was nice, the atmosphere cheery and hopeful despite the injuries still visible here and there.

But as he scanned the crowd there was someone missing, someone he'd hoped to see, maybe get to know better, but at least to thank. Perhaps he shouldn't have been surprised, but at the same time he'd rather hoped to see the tactician here. Even the Prime had come in to congratulate them (again, he'd also congratulated them on a job well done when they had first returned from the battle, though most of those now here had been unconscious at the time, including Bumblebee in fact) but the tactician hadn't been seen at all it seemed as Bumblebee quietly asked around. Most of them just sort of shrugged it off, saying Prowl wasn't the sort that did parties, something about being a stiff by-the-book drone. Rather rude considering that the tactician had been the key to their victory but at the same time most of them didn't say it in a mean way, more as if it was just something of how things worked, as if it were some personality glitch. Others seemed to be under the impression that he just didn't like to mingle with subordinates, or was too busy to deal with people.

Well there was really only one good way to move forward with this investigation and that was to ask either Jazz or Blaster. Blaster was head of Intelligence, he knew _everything_ , and Jazz was, well, Jazz. Bumblebee didn't know a lot about the bot, beyond that he was special ops, but he seemed really friendly and seemed to know _everyone_  on base. But unlike Jazz, Blaster actually worked with Prowl, tactics and intelligence were naturally intertwined, while Jazz was just an agent. Not quite rank and file but not one who would work directly with the Autobot's tactical commander.

Tossing his empty cube into a waste bin Bumblebee made his way over to the sound system. "Hey Blaster!"

"Bee! Bumbles! Bumblebumlebee! How's it hanging mah main mech? Saaahw you dancin earlier, likin' mah beats?" The sound system asked, a wide grin on his face as he allowed his hands to disengage from the turn tables, letting the music run itself for now.

"Pit yes! I feel like I haven't danced so much in centu-vorns. This is quite the party." Bumblebee gushed with a grin of his own.

"Ah aim to please." Blaster replied with a pleased smirk. "An' how's yer leg doing?"

"Much better." Bumblebee gave a blink of surprise but then smiled. "Gosh Blaster, you really _do_ know everyone's business."

Blaster laughed. "Well, not everythin' but Ah'm head of intelligence, it's mah job to know all Ah kin." He reached out and rubbed Bumblebee's helm affectionately. "'Sides, Ah've rather taken a shine to you lil' Bumbles."

Bumblebee smiled frozenly, forcing down his automatic reaction to the treatment. Being a minibot had certain draw backs, larger bots tended to be patronizing and look down on you. 'That just makes it that much easier a reach to gouge out their optics.' His pace-leader always used to say and Bumblebee reminded himself that Blaster wasn't being _intentionally_ condescending. And Blaster was a host model wasn't he? That meant he had casseti-bots. Did that make it worse or better? Who knew. Back to task. "So there are a lot of bots here I've never seen on base before."

"Ah, that's acause we invited all those who survived the battle, even those from Fort Twine, we sent a relief force from our base here, givin' em all a bita time off, relax, unwind, recoup. Ya'know." Blaster's head was bobbing with the beat as he looked over the room, looking at all the assembled bots, well and injured alike. "Used to be Prime would let me'n the 'Unofficial Party Company' go here 'n there durin' quiet times, go throw parties at all the differen' bases, give 'em a day off ev'ry once in a while." He let out a sigh, a bit mournful. "'Twere good tahmes, good tahmes. Miss 'em sometimes, was good for moral and 'twernt like Ah couldn't do mah job frm other places."

Interesting, Bumblebee had heard something like that quite a while ago. "Why'd you stop then?"

Blaster looked suddenly uncomfortable, darting a glance back to the bots on the dance floor, lips shifting, almost... but then he focused on Bumblebee and shrugged an unhappy half smile. "Things happen, bots change. It's not sommat to worry about lil' Bee."

Bumblebee's curiosity still buzzed but Blaster was right, he wasn't _really_  worried about that. Instead he returned to his previous line of questioning. "So like, everyone from the battle's here huh?"

"'Jess about." Blaster smirked a bit, cheering up at the change of topic. "Why? Lookin' for somebot?"

"Yeah, I was hoping to see Prowl. He was the tactician who ran the battle right? The medics said he was released earlier and I was hoping to thank him, he managed to save my entire squad when we were about to be overrun." As he'd been speaking he'd watched Blaster's smile fade away into nothing, the life slowly seeming to drain out of the mech. "Blaster? What is wrong?" He asked worriedly, looking into the other's glazed optics.

"Yer askin' the hard questions for sure little Bumblebot." Blaster said, shaking his helm as if to dismiss darker thoughts, though as his optics refocused on Bumblebee they still had a sad slightly haunted look to them. "Prowl doesn't come to the parties. Ever."

"Really? Why not?"

Blaster shrugged. "He's a private mech." He said evasively then sighed, refocusing. Bumblebee narrowed his optics, assessing, using the skills his bright paint job and innocent optics made everyone think he didn't have. Blaster was screaming of hidden secrets, but he also looked like he was preparing, arranging his thoughts into an explanation true enough not to bother his conscience. Blaster was not a naturally deceitful mech it seemed. "Prowl doesn't really interact with anyone outside of work. And even when he is at work... he doesn't..." He hesitated and shook his helm again. "He is our head tactician, and we all owe him innumerable debts. He is brilliant, but there is very little else in his life." He said sounding sad. Again Bumblebee had that sense that there was more to the story than the tape deck was sharing.

Bumblebee fixed Blaster with an intent look. "Sounds sad." He said, trying to prompt the other to reveal more. And for a moment it looked as if it would work but then the tape deck looked past him and made an ugly disgusted face.

"Oh and what are you doing over here?" Blaster asked, sounding almost hostile. What on Cybertron? Bumblebee turned only to see Jazz.

"Awww, just checkin' in on one of my old friends. It's been a while Blaster, how you doing?" The ops agent asked in his easy, cheerful way.

"Ah. Am. Fine." Blaster bit out, optics narrowed. "Anyway, Ah think Ah'll go check out the refreshments. Feelin' a bit thirsty." He said, voice colder than Bumblebee would ever have expected from such a friendly mech, and then half stomped off.

Bumblebee looked back over to Jazz, who was looking after the tape deck with a faintly amused smile below his bright blue visor. "What was that about?"

"Hm?" Jazz looked down at him and gave him a wide friendly smile. "Ah, Bumblebee right? You've been here for... two decaorns? Or is it three now?"

Bumblebee chuckled. "Something like that Jazz. Surprised you remember, we've hardly met."

Jazz shrugged easily. "I make a point to know everyone 's much as I can. Lotta good mechs here an' you never know who your next friend is gonna be right?"

Bumblebee chuckled. "So just keep an open mind and try to make friends with everyone?"

Jazz grinned "Right on the nose. Though I must admit, it helps that I've heard whispers of you being someone who might have a talent for special ops."

Bumblebee ducked his helm in embarrassment. So he'd heard about that too. "I am just a common soldiers for now Jazz. Nothing interesting or nothin'."

Jazz chuckled and shook his head. "No one is just a 'common' anything Bumblebee, there is always something hidden beneath the hood if you know what I mean." He said with a grin. "That's the first thing you learn if you go into special ops."

Bumblebee chuckled. "I'll keep that in mind if my career ever takes off." He joked, enjoying the easy back and forth.

"So I hear you've been asking about Prowl?" Jazz half stated half asked with a wry smile, tilting his helm to one side.

"What? Yes, could you tell me more about him? I mean, he saved my life and everyone in my squad and I was kinda hoping I could thank him."

Jazz let out a sigh, knitting his fingers behind his helm. "I don't really know much about him, he's a bit out of my league if you know what I mean, commander material and whatnot. Just know the usual stuff, strict about rules, best tactician we have, doesn't socialize much. I was actually hoping Blaster mighta told you something...?" He dangled it out there, fishing for information in a sad but faintly hopeful tone.

Bumblebee gave him a confused look. "No, not really. But if you hoped Blaster might tell you more why are you asking me not him?"

"Blaster an' I... we don't get along so much anymore."

"So you used to be friends?"

"Yeh..." Jazz looked sad, not quite mournful, but close. The look of someone missing not just a friend, but their _best_  friend.

"What happened?"

Jazz hesitated looking unsure of himself then let out a sigh, hands coming down to hang at his sides. "Bein' an Ops agent isn't easy, sometimes ya end up doing things..." He shook his helm. "Well, it isn't for everyone Bumblebee, and not everyone understands." He looked down at Bumblebee without making Bumblebee feel 'looked down on'. "Just something to keep in mind before you make your decision about going special ops. Ya'know, if it is ever offered."

Bumblebee frowned slightly, he hadn't really thought about such things. Now he felt a bit embarrassed, he wasn't even entirely sure what Jazz meant by that but the hints were obvious enough that it meant bad news. Maybe that was why his pace-leader seemed so unhappy about the special ops thing at times. "Thanks Jazz. I will keep it in mind." It felt a bit strange to have something so clearly personal shared with him. But then Jazz seemed a pretty friendly mech, maybe it was just his style. Or perhaps he saw something of himself in Bumblebee, and wanted to look out for him a little.

Jazz let out an exaggerated sigh and stretched. "Well this is faaaaar too gloomy talk for a party. Since your leg seems to still be holding out mind joinin' me for a dance?" He asked a gave Bumblebee a sneaky grin beneath his flashing visor.

Bumblebee chuckled. "With you? I saw you earlier, you don't want to dance with someone as clumsy as me. I've got two left- Agh!" He cut off in a yell as Jazz simply grabbed him, dragging him to the dance floor.

"Ah stop talkin' yourself down, if I didn't want to dance with you I wouldn'ta asked. Let's have some fun." The larger bot said spinning Bumblebee around with a laugh and leading him through a simple but quick set of steps that fit well with the beat of the song. As Bumblebee got more comfortable with it Jazz began adding things to it, his own sort of flair and Bumblebee kept up for so long as he could. But as one song changed to another Bumblebee was sort of glad Jazz got more and more wound up in his own dancing and slowly seemed to forget about his partner. It was clear Jazz loved to dance and Bumblebee's leg was starting to hurt so he sat down and watched as the agile ops agent moved and contorted and slid across the dance floor, motions becoming slowly more elaborate, moving in ways the minibot never would have believed possible for a Cybertronian. It was incredible to watch, Bumblebee enjoyed every breem of it.

All in all it was a fantastic party, quite probably the best of his life. He managed to dance quite a bit and talk with a lot of the bots, making friendly conversation with friends and acquaintances and checking how others from the battle were doing. He tried not to get too overcharged but still ended up drinking more high-grade than he meant to, it was just so darn good, and the energon treats and oil cake had been incredible. He'd definitely have a processor ache tomorrow, but hey, parties didn't come every day, and it was good to kick back every once in a while. If there was any regret in him (and even this one was drowned out by high-grade and extreme fun after the first joor) it was that the one who had made it all possible, the elusive tactician Prowl, had not been there to enjoy it as well. Oh well, each to their own right?

 

 

 

 

 

Prowl stared blankly straight ahead, optics unfocused and now slightly dimmed in the darkness. The left one still gave strange flickers of interference but was now mostly operative, though he was not allowed to direct his gaze or focus with them in this 'mode'. All his sensors were still on maximum sensitivity, alert, seeking his master's presence. His master had left, leaving him hanging upside down in this small bare cell but it was difficult bordering on impossible to stop seeking his master's presence. The need to appease, to watch attentively for any command, the fear of making a mistake, it tore at him making his entire frame vibrate with distraught nervous energy as his sensor net strained outward seeking the slightest hint of command or master. If only he could be more obedient, make fewer mistakes, be a better mechanism, then he wouldn't have to suffer like this. But every pain, every deprivation, every suffering was deserved, just reward for his mistakes and crimes.

A faint high pitched whine, so small as to be almost inaudible, emitted from his vocalizer as his processor rolled over and over his many crimes and mistakes he'd made since his last round of punishments from his master, as he contemplated the terrible punishments that were to come, that he'd earned. His spark seemed to stutter and shrink just at the thoughts. Gradually he became aware of the tiny sound he was making and it cut off abruptly. Horror speared through him, locking his joints, his spark seeming to halt for a few moments, something that would have brought a medic running if he'd been hooked up to any kind of monitor. He had made an unauthorized sound, he had made a mistake. It didn't matter that his master was not there, hadn't been able to witness (though knowing his master, he might be there, despite what Prowl's sensors might insist) Prowl had still made the mistake and somehow, some way, his master would know. And even if he _didn't_ find out Prowl would have to tell him, if allowed. And even if that did not occur he had still _made_ the mistake, it was there, an indelible accusation against him.

Prowl's internals ground together in horror and misery, 'locked' frame unable to shudder normally. If he hadn't already been hanging limply he would have slumped, as it was there was no further visible collapse possible. But inside his spark crumpled because he knew, he _knew_ , that whatever was to follow, whatever punishments he would endure, were _deserved_. He had disobeyed, had made a mistake. He deserved to be punished.


	4. Shattered View

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sometimes it takes a lot to empty a bot of their own thoughts and inclinations, sometimes it doesn't take much at all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> On brainwashing and reprogramming, as thorough as it gets.
> 
> This should be the last torture chapter for a while, we'll be getting on to other things after this.

Jazz onlined slowly. Oh his aching processor. How much high-grade had he had? He was not in his quarters, he was not in his own berth. His visor flickered to life and survival protocols shrieked into activity, priming his frame to fight or flee without actually moving, waiting for the assessment that would determine how (or whether) to kill the frame curled against him. His berth was the only place his code recognized as safe to recharge. But as he looked around he found the form next to him was an Autobot and he was in a rather boringly average soldier's quarters. He let his alarm cycle down and battle protocols go back to sleep. Now his processor hurt much worse. He let out a faint growl trying to figure out why he was here instead of his own berth. It wasn't as if he was shy to bring bots back from a party, and more could fit on his larger berth than this puny common soldier's one.

His irritation evaporated when he realized the reason. There was something in his quarters he couldn't let _anyone_  see after all. A smirk began to form on his face. It had been quite a while since he had last been allowed to play with his pretty little praxian. It was worth the extra pain of waking to fighting protocols while hung over. Jazz looked over the sleeping bot next to him. Still deep in recharge, quite good looking. But this berth was small and uncomfortable and while he really should let his pet 'hang around' for at least a whole orn, staying here held no allure now that he was sober. Carefully he extricated himself from the sleeping bot and slipped out of the soldier's small quarters.

Freedom. The halls were quiet at this time, about a quarter through first shift of the day. Needed hangover cure. Medbay? No, they medics were always ornery and jumpy or looked at him with those kicked turbopuppy optics when he had his little pet in custody, and for several decaorns after, though _after_ he turned the mech over to them for repairs their expressions were often more pointed and angry. Something about medibots' healer protocols making them resent him for damaging their patient. That was a form of power too, because he _could_ do whatever he liked, and they could not object or protest because he was on orders from Optimus Prime to do them. A faint smile came to his face for a nanoklik before the motion caused pain to lance through his helm. Ugh. Hang overs. He had gotten to his quarters at least and he kept some medicine there. He keyed in the code, slipping inside quietly.

Oh and there was his lovely little Praxian. Spilled energon had dried in a pool beneath the bot, with streaks of it still evident on hands and pedes from before he'd been hung upside down. What had he set the bot at? Ugh, couldn't remember. Stupid hang over. But he was beyond where the mech was allowed to sense and so, for now, while the praxian's sensors strained, and his optics remained fixed directly ahead, he was unaware of Jazz's presence. As long as Jazz didn't stray too close to that side of the main room his pet would remain oblivious, and would suffer the necessary shock of prolonged abandonment in his suffering, unable to focus on anything but his interpreted sins and the need to appease his still absent master.

Jazz went to the kitchenette on the other side of the main room, mixing the medicine into some low grade and sipping it slowly. He watched the motionless praxian, noting the angle of the limp sensor wings. The metal around the hinges had not yet begun to warp. How many orns would he leave the mech like this? The longer he left him like that the more grateful the pathetic creature would be to be released from that torture to whatever other deserved punishments were held in store. But he felt so impatient, his pet really was a good one, trained so well, it had been so long since he'd needed a 'treatment'. Trained too well almost. Jazz let out a sigh, knowing that, since he was not within the 'room' the tactician was in, the praxian's self preservation protocols would not allow any sound he made to reach his pet's conscious mind. Long ago Jazz had trained his pet, forced him to reprogram himself, so that all input from his sensor net, while in 'safe mode', would be filtered so the bot would not be able to witness or know about anything Jazz did not wish him to.

Jazz smiled slowly. All you had to do was convince the processor that to notice anything it wasn't allowed to was life threatening and boom, he could tell the Praxian he had painted him orange and orange would be what the bot would see. He could tell the mech he'd stabbed him in the leg and his pet would scream (assuming Jazz had given permission) and pain would light up his sensor net like the moons of the night. Jazz shivered and smirked just at the thought.

This was another form of true power. Jazz's words dictated the bot's whole reality. The praxian's desperate processor would do whatever it took to rewrite the incoming data to match _his_  words, because not to do so was to risk not just terrible pain, but death itself. Or so he had convinced the mech's programming. It was beautiful really. He wished he could share it with someone else, this perfect work of art that he had made of the little tactician. It walked, it talked, it fulfilled its function, it could fight and won battles, and he controlled every little thing about it. But he had yet to find someone who could truly appreciate the beauty of his lovely little pet. His lovely empty little pet. But then again, that was why the mech was here. That perfect emptiness had been spoiled, emotions distilling on the clean inner surfaces, individuality, thoughts beyond the scope of his function. But as annoying as it was Jazz only really got to play with his pet when there _was_  a problem, so he should appreciate it more.

Or perhaps he should see if he could coax the Prime to allow him more time with the mech. Or he could just take longer than he really needed to. But that might go too far, the spark might gutter completely out. Then again, there was that deep surging need, that want to see if a mechanism truly could continue on without its spark, if properly prepared. And how better prepared could a mech be than his delicious little pet? All the things associated with the spark, emotions, attachments, independent thought, hopes, dreams, they were all so carefully hollowed out, taken away. How much more a difference would it really make to have the spark go out completely? Clawed hands twitched with need, with hunger, but Jazz controlled himself, stuffing the inclination down deep. It was too risky. It might fail, and he did not have sufficient favor with the other bots to survive the fallout should the tactician's all important battle computer be lost. The ones that knew of his duties barely tolerated him, and his standing with the Prime hung on his efficiency at keeping their greatest weapon fully functional. His curiosity, his dream, would have to wait. Perhaps after the war? Maybe he could sneak off with his pet and finish the job before anyone could stop him, and after he had, what could they do? And then, then his little praxian really _would_  be perfect. Completely empty, completely hollow, forever.

Pit, he needed to find someone to frag. These thoughts were making him far too hot. Or maybe a drive, a nice long long drive. He didn't have any work after all, no shifts while he was 'doing maintenance' on the Autobot's tactical computer. He finished off the last of the medicine, feeling much better already, and headed out.

 

Sometimes even Jazz made mistakes. When he'd come back to his quarters the praxian's frame had been deathly still. Almost quite literally. If the pathetic creature had one redeeming quality it was its resilience. He should have known better than not to have checked the mech's fuel levels before he'd checked out that morning. A careful IV and the mech would eventually come back online.

 

Waiting was the most frustrating part, sitting outside of the praxian's 'room', watching him dangle helplessly, unmoving but in ever increasing pain, not even daring to refocus his optics, only the light in them and the sound of his systems the only clue to if his pet was online or off.

 

Waiting was hard but anticipation was delicious.

Driving was good. Burn off energy, keep yourself calm. He could wait.

 

Three and a half orns turned out to be his limit this time. Jazz would have preferred if he'd been able to hold out a while longer, long enough for the damage to the sensor wings' complex hinges to become permanent (until reconstructive surgery at least). Still, the metal was warped badly and even his pet's incredible control could no longer keep the agony out of his field though he was still behaving well enough that he did not cry out for relief or even whimper. Pity. Jazz would have loved to punish him for a slip up like that, but the praxian didn't even twitch as Jazz stepped into the praxian's 'cell'. In a moment the strained sensors flared, the faintest crackle of electricity reaching Jazz's audials as his pet noticed his return and focused every last circuit on his master. He could sense a faint desperate relief in his pet's field, not quite enough to punish, not quite enough to be completely certain of, but that was only to be expected. As well trained as his pet was being alone, silent and unmoving, starved practically into shutdown in what seemed to him a silent dark bare cell for three and a half orns with only his own guilt and pain for company, was its own special kind of nightmare. The sort where even the face of an enemy would be a welcome distraction, and the presence of his master, giver of pain and pleasure (but mostly pain), doubly so.

Slowly Jazz stalked around the trapped mech, listening to the faint whirs of his running systems, looking over every square millimeter of his pet, expression displeased and cold, something that only made the tactician's internal systems run a little faster, processor becoming clouded with the need to appease his master. But he didn't move or speak. Good.

Except...

There! Just for a flicker of a moment. The praxian's sensor wings, abused as they were, had shifted ever so slightly to track his movements. Perfect. In an instant Jazz lashed out, sending a mental command to unlock the shackles that held the praxian's ankles as he twisted, striking the praxian with one pede just so, sending the helpless mech into the wall sensor wings first. There was a sickening grating crack as one of the abused hinges simply gave out. Scrap. But the tactician didn't offline, though his field flared with such agony, oh it almost hurt to stand near him. Expression cold Jazz stalked over to the mech, laying in a crumpled agonized heap where he had fallen. "You know better than that." He said quietly, knowing his pet would know what he was referring to.

He watched silently as the praxian struggled to gain control of his EM field, but the pain was simply too much for his starved and abused frame. The tactician should have responded with the required 'yes master' but it was clear that he didn't dare boot up his vocalizer for the unauthorized screaming that would inevitably follow. Assuming the tactician was still able to process enough to make that kind of judgement call. Jazz took pity on the creature and reached out carefully to caress the less injured wing. "You know I hate to do this to you." He said mournfully. "I wouldn't have to hurt you if you would just obey." He carefully pressed a single claw into the metal of the sensor wing, pushing until it punctured the metal and he felt the faint sharp jolt as his pet's entire frame locked up, vibrating slightly with the tremors it was not allowed to express. "Why can't you just be good?" And there it was, the crumpling of the field, the internal weakening as the guilt ate at and softened the mucky emotions that were now tainting him.

Also good confirmation that his pet was still able to understand speech, at least mostly. "Prowler: unmute, unlock field." Jazz spoke the commands in a flat tone and instantly his pet's desperate efforts to control his field slackened off, leaving it rich with agony that was slowly lessening as the moment of the break receded. There was guilt too, lots of it, strong and crippling after all that time left alone in the dark to ruminate on his crimes. Guilt for making his master do something he found so distasteful (oh but Jazz loved the irony of that). Shame for being so terrible. A faint, desperate hope that his master might give him some form of relief from the terrible agonizing pain of the broken wing. A surge of gratitude was there but quickly fell before the tide of pain, Jazz's pet knew it was an undeserved mercy to be allowed release from the obligation to control his field.

The unmute command, one that would allow his pet tactician to speak whatever he desired at any time, or make any sound, without having to receive permission first, took a while longer. His vocalizer booted up to a faint keening that gradually grew into a louder wail only to sink back into an endless keen of agony. The pain was no longer so fresh as to induce screaming, but it was still an absolutely beautiful sound. Automatically Jazz began recording it to add to his collection of similar recordings gathered from his wonderful little pet. He would play them to himself when things got especially hard or dull just to cheer himself up.

"You have been bad and it falls to me to punish you. We all have our work to do. I wish you did not make me have to do this." Jazz said in a mournful tone, a cruel smirk on his lips.

"Sorry. Master." The damaged praxian wheezed, voice laden with agony static. True regret could be felt in his field. Grief, shame, acceptance. He might hate the punishments, hate the pain, but he truly believed it was deserved. So beautifully perfectly trained his little pet was. He wondered if left to himself the little praxian would eventually turn to punishing himself without his caring master to look after him.

Jazz sat down near his pet, shifting so his back was against the wall then grasping the bot's helm and dragging him over so that he could rest the praxian's helm in his lap, sharp claws dancing across the coverings of audial sensors, leaving small cuts in sensitive areas. "Open up."

The Praxian's field flinched though his frame remained rigid where his master had placed him. Jazz could feel the faint panic and the brief war between the individuality of his pet that had cropped up, that was the reason for this treatment, and his training, the reprogramming he had suffered at Jazz's cruel hands. A panel in the back of the tactician's helm opened with a snick, exposing the hard-line port and wound cable. Terror and misery flared through his field.

Jazz clenched one hand, tearing through metal, damaging sensitive circuitry in the audial he had been toying with. "You were slow." He said coldly and raised up his claws to lick them clean of energon.

"S-sorry master." the praxian half whispered half whimpered. But then there was the tiniest flare of rebellion. But it gone a moment later, not repressed so much as simply unraveled under the force of the praxian's own guilt and self preservation protocols that screamed that to disobey, or worse displease, his master was death, worse than death.

Jazz reached out with one hand, a panel opening on his wrist, feeling the horror the sound of it opening made bloom in his pet's field. He toyed with the hard-line port, relishing the horror and faint whimpers it brought. His pet knew what was coming, hated it as much as any physical torture, perhaps more. Before he'd been broken his pet had been more of the mind than frame. Perhaps that was why this always seemed to bother him more? Jazz didn't know but also didn't really care. It caused incredible suffering, something quite like pain in many ways, and _that_  was the thrill he chased.

Jazz plugged in, feeling as all the praxian's powerful firewalls and traps all folded up and away, letting his master in without even a twitch of resistance. Jazz began, pulling at memory files, poking at programs, toying with code, tweaking and rewriting only to rewrite them again back into what they were (seeing as they were already exactly what he wanted them to be, no this was about the violation and the helplessness of having another manipulate your own running code). Already his pet was in terrible terrible pain from his damaged sensor wings and torn audials, and so starved it wracked his frame with literal pain, but now Jazz could hurt him in a completely different way, and humiliate and shame him as well.

Jazz began working the praxian over, listening to the whimpers and moans and cries of pain and distress his ministrations drew out of his lovely little pet. He poked and prodded at what had once been treasured memories, held sacred and private but now having been violated so frequently and thoroughly the only emotion still linked to them was the loss of something precious. The praxian let out a deep groan, field and emotions sparking with an entirely different kind of agony. It was such a fun game to play, to break and twist and burn, forcing himself into files that had once been private. He had done all these things before, but it elicited such awful distress and such beautiful noises from his little pet that he often started his sessions with such.

But after a joor or so of the mind rape, riding that heady buzz, Jazz felt it was time to get to work and began checking the programming that bound his pet, his slave. The programs that filtered incoming data to fit with the words of his master were still fully operational and very strong. Jazz passed on a command to his pet to 'unlock' his gaze and told him to look around his cell and describe it. Jazz didn't really listen to the words, instead watching from inside the praxian's processor what his conscious mind saw through the filters. A bare dark cell. Plain metal still stained with his energon from before, chains hanging from the ceiling, door hidden in the shadows. He could not see Jazz's living room or kitchenette or the couch so close to that 'far wall' of his cell.

"I put a statue in the corner over there." Jazz said, gesturing. And immediately the praxian's optics were drawn to that corner of the imaginary cell. For a brief moment the filtering self preservation protocols panicked then supplied the image of an odd statue to fill the corner. And then they rewrote the tactician's memories to record that it had always been there this session, filling it in where needed in previous images. Jazz smirked. He has so much power over his little pet, even so far as to dictate the reality he experienced. Linked into the bot's processor he supplied an image to the self preservation mind control programs of what he wanted the statue to look like, and all the necessary memories and current visuals were modified accordingly. His pet's battered consciousness rippled with confusion, feeling that something was off but with his own databanks lying to him he could not even begin to guess why and simply sank further into misery, evaluating his confusion at nothing more than further proof of his crimes and inadequacies, as reasons he deserved his punishments, including this horrible awful one.

Jazz continued to poke around. Always this was what worried him most, but again his worries were unfounded. His pet was still unable to connect its master to special ops agent Jazz. He had put a firm block in the mech's mind (or rather induced the mech to create the block in his mind) to prevent that link from ever occurring. He poked at it again. Yes, strong enough that even if someone told his pet, to his face, while in 'normal' mode (the mode he usually functioned in, up and running instead of the 'safe mode' designed by Jazz for use while dealing out his 'treatments') the pathetic creature would still be physiologically unable to connect Jazz to the mech who was his rightful master. This had originally been an issue of severe self preservation on Jazz's part. Until he was certain his pet had been properly trained there was a danger that somehow, even subconsciously, the tactician who planned all his missions, might do one tiny little thing to get revenge on his cruel master. So instead it was blocked and Jazz was safe, as a special agent, just another one of the Autobots his pet had to protect at all costs in which even the slightest failure would earn the tactician terrible brutal punishments.

Jazz probed deeper reviewing points of interest in the mech's memories since their last session. Excellent, the pathetic creature was now so afraid of making mistakes when speaking to others he no longer did so beyond what was _absolutely necessary_  to fulfill his function as the Autobot's tactical computer. Even if others sought him out the praxian avoided the contact, fearing a misstep and deserving punishment for such. There was the loneliness, but it was weaker than last time. Each time a little weaker than the time before as his little pet drew nearer and nearer to perfect hollowness. One day Jazz might never need to do 'maintenance' on the tactician, he would finally be immune to the detritus of this world, emotions connections, everything unnecessary for his function would not exist in his world and nothing would stick. Just the perfect tactical computer, running numbers and self maintaining, forever.

It would be so very sad not to play with his pet again though. Oh the final conundrum of his work. Perfection or enjoyment? He certainly enjoyed his work, but if he did it too well he would rob himself of the practice. But Jazz was an _artist_ , and this pathetic weak creature his magnum opus, a perfection of his art. For the good of all, and by the _command_  of Optimus Prime himself (and didn't _that_  send a pretty shiver down his spinal strut), he would do whatever was needful to accomplish his duty, even sacrifice his own pleasure to do so. It would be nice if the Prime would give him the tactician afterward, to keep and play with, even after his work was done. But he had no power to control the Prime, and he did not dare steal the Prime's pet tactician, not while the war still raged. But maybe after, steal the little thing away, a toy to do with whatever he pleased, who would do whatever he pleased.

Jazz played with the tactician's face as he thought, running his sharp claws along and across the features, lightly scoring the metal, making tiny cuts in the sensitive areas around the optics, not drawing energon, not yet, but tantalizingly close. The praxian whimpered softly, field flat, submissive and heavy with misery and guilt and awful pain. So precious, he dug a little harder at the area around one optic and felt as the frame stiffened slightly and a file, a deep miserable terror, came up in the praxian's processor. Something about the left optic. It was still damaged, it should have been replaced, but it hadn't been. But the way the tactician's processor kept coming back to it indicated it was important. Jazz opened the file, skimming it with idle interest. Emotions, this was all about emotions. He could feel how the praxian warred with himself, wanting to hide this from Jazz, desperate to hide it from him really, but the protocols that Jazz had induced him to program into himself demanded that his pet appease, allow Jazz to violate him however the special ops saw fit.

The information in the file was frankly boring. Lots of deep reasoning, thoughts that were most certainly not allowed, but the overlaying thoughts and emotions there were far more interesting. The tactician was afraid Jazz would take the optic from him, afraid that that would be the punishment for his crimes. He believed he could accept any punishment except that. For some reason his pet was desperate to keep the damaged optic, deeply desperate. So desperate he was trying to fight his own self preservation codes to hide this from his master. It was so funny, so delicious an irony, that his pet was unable to prevent itself from letting Jazz know everything, and anytime there was something special, something circumstantially powerful to be used as the perfect tool against the pitiful creature, something that then and there would be more effective to inflict pain than anything else. Jazz's claws came to caress the optic, gently teasing around the edges of it.

"Please. Please master. Please, let me.. don't... please... please master." The praxian began begging sending a gentle thrill through Jazz as his little pet's field began to be overwhelmed with desperation and fear even stronger than the agony of his broken sensor wing. Oh it felt so _so_  good. Jazz could feel his circuits heating up at it. He began browsing through other files, nicking and clipping them, letting his pet think he'd been distracted. But no hope bloomed in his pet's field. He felt into a whimpering silence but stopped begging, resigned but perhaps hoping that if he did not bring it up Jazz would forget. Except there was no hope in the bot, and linked into his processor Jazz could see there was no such plan in place, nothing so well thought out, just the dull aching terror, the misery of mind rape, the pain of Jazz's claws slowly shredding the surface of the metal of his face, the despair of knowing it was all deserved, that there was no mercy, only cold justice slowly grinding him down for his mistakes and crimes.

So beautiful. Like the finest crystal.

Jazz dug deeper at the tactician's files, following along the flashes of thoughts and sometimes browsing the selected files, the points of guilt that were most torturing his little pet. Ah his mistakes and crimes. Jazz molested those files, yanking and jerking at them, forcing his pet to relive the shame and horror of them in uneven stop jerk motions, amping up the guilt. "You have been so very bad my pet." He half purred half growled, feeling as the praxian's mind thrashed and tore, the tangling strained field, the locked up frame vibrating with the agony that poured in from every angle of his existence.

"Please master." He whimpered.

"Please what?" Jazz asked and gave a particularly nasty jerk to a memory of some minor miscalculation that the tactician's training had blown up into an enormous crime of unspeakable evil and willful cruelty.

 _I just want to be good._  The desperate thought flickered through the tactician's mind and Jazz grasped it, jerking at it, making the praxian's processor hiss and stutter with pain, active threads (such as they were after all the training his pet had gone through) tangling and snarling hopelessly.

Jazz twisted the thought around, entwining the threads, snarling them into a miserable mess, reinforcing the praxian's training to always follow that thought, the desire to be good, with this one. _You will **never**  be good enough. You are a terrible person. You do terrible things. You **deserve**  every bad thing that happens and far **far** more than you get. You do not deserve how merciful the Autobots are to keep you. You do not deserve how merciful your master is in limiting your punishments. You do not deserve the mercy the universe shows you in refraining from dealing you **true**  justice for all your mistakes and crimes._

And the praxian's field crumpled. His processor went blank, the words hovering there like an oppressive cloud, blotting out everything else.

Jazz withdrew his influence slowly, careful not to disturb that delicate balance. Best to leave his pet to ruminate on that for a while before the final punishment for this session. Leave it on this dark note. Leave him with his programming, and the guilt and shame that tore away everything that made him an individual instead of the machine he was meant to be.

"I've reviewed your crimes my pet." Jazz started softly, and felt as the praxian's exhausted attention shifted to him, though still clouded, oppressed by the cruel truths that shaped his tortured existence. "You must be punished. I can only hope that this will be enough, that you will finally behave after this." He said mournfully. "That this might be the last, something painful enough to keep you from returning to your cruel and clumsy ways that do such awful harm to others." Jazz's claws began circling the left optic, around and around and around, the praxian's field stirring from its crushed stupor with desperation and terror.

"Please master. Please... not... not that... it's all I have left... the other optic, my glossa, audials, vocalizer, anything, everything, just please, please not that, it's all I have left, all I have left. Please master. Please." The begging was pitiful, a pathetic desperate thing dredged up from the deepest part of the pathetic bot before him. Excellent, the deeper the feeling behind it, the deeper it would tear out the emotional contamination to go through with this.

Jazz looked down at his pet, those desperate blue optics locked on his as the mech continued to beg and he smiled a sad sweet cruel smile. "But... this is what you deserve my pet." He purred, claws cutting deeper and deeper with each circuit of the optic. He wasn't just removing it, he was slowly cutting away all the metal of his pet's face around it. The hole widened and widened, allowing him to see the bare circuits and wires that were hidden behind, that connected and ran the hardware in his helm.

"Please master... please... I'll do anything... please..."

Jazz sighed in perfectly simulated regret. "But you said that last time pet, and yet you still have not mended your ways. I only pray that this will finally be enough to tame you." He said and carefully, delicately gripped the optic in his claws. Slowly he pulled, listening to the tactician's muffled cries as wires and linkages began to break and snap, then the sudden scream as Jazz jerked it the rest of the way free. Jazz rolled the optic sensor around in his fingers, watching the dangling wires and such dance as the praxian whimpered softly, energon flowing from the wounds in face and where the optic had connected. It was beautiful, even if flawed, but nothing that should have been so special to his little pet.

The tactician's field was rich with grief and loss, slowly eating itself up from the inside out. But it wasn't quite complete. Jazz still had his finishing move. He stood slowly, letting the tactician's helm dent as it flopped loosely to the ground. "I am going to have to break this." He said and placed the optic on the ground. He brought his pede down on the ground slowly between the praxian's remaining optic and the one on the floor. He still hadn't unplugged from the tactician and watched as the self preservation coding that filtered the information coming in from the praxian's sensors supplied the image and sound of the optic shattering under his master's heavy pede. Good. The self deception programs were still fully functional.

Jazz leaned over, picking up the optic with one hand as he disconnected from the praxian with the other. "I want you to think about what you have done." He told his pet in a cool voice. There was no response, no response at all. He might as well have been talking to a wall, or a greyed out husk. The praxian's remaining optic was focused on the shattered remains of the optic that only existed as an illusion in his own mind, and there was nothing left. Occasionally there were times where it took only a very very little to empty a mech completely. Jazz was somewhat disappointed that he had been able to inflict so little physical pain. Then again, he had broken the praxian's sensor wing completely, but that would have been much more satisfying if he'd done it on purpose. But the mech was empty now, as much as if he'd been permanently offlined in battle, though he still functioned.

Jazz walked back to his living space playing with the dismembered optic in his claws. A fun little trophy this. He placed it on a shelf with other similar trinkets and then looked back at his praxian. He would have to leave the mech like that for a while, at least overnight, to see if the punishment stuck or if he would get to play with his pet some more. But then again, there was something so beautiful about being able to so thoroughly destroy someone with so small an action. He would have to test his pet. He filled a cube with energon, returning to the praxian's 'cell' and placing it in easy reach of one of the white hands. The praxian was starving, that was one of the purposes of the bloodletting at the beginning of the initial evaluation. This was another simple test. Starving to literal deactivation, would he break the rule against moving without permission to refuel? or was the training still stronger than any natural self preservation code?

The whole time Jazz set things up the Praxian's unlocked gaze never wavered, not a single sensor or cable twitched, entire focus on the shattered remains of his dismembered optic that only he could see, EM field so empty it didn't even seem to exist anymore, like an empty unsparked machine.


	5. Visit to the Medbay

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prowl is handed over to real healers and Bumblebee begins to snoooooooooop
> 
> And we get a tiny glimpse into Jazz's true condition. Bonus points if you can guess what they mean.

Jazz came online slowly, automatic checks reassuring him that he was in his own berth in his own quarters. Everything was safe, everything right. It was okay to boot up slow, letting his systems take their time to come online. Jazz let out a soft sigh, contented. Safe. Here in this tiny space where he didn't have to answer to anyone and had no one who answered to him. A tiny space where he could just be. Unrestricted. No rules, no orders, no time.

Slowly information flickered in, memories and current events, tasks to be completed and that warm safe contentment trickled away as it always did. His code edged at him. Work. His pet praxian. Things to do. He got out of his berth quietly and slunk out of the small room into his main quarters. He disliked letting work thoughts into his one safe space in all of Cybertron. But then again, his little pet praxian was pleasure far more than _work_. He glanced over toward the crumpled black and white frame. It hadn't moved a micrometer. Interesting, not even the slightest change in position of the smallest digits or change in angle of a single joint. The cube of energon was exactly where he had left it, untouched even though it was certain his pet's olfactory sensors had picked up its scent.

The light in the praxian's remaining optic was dim and his systems running almost silently, processors especially basically nonfunctional. He was running on fumes, but Jazz was surprised he hadn't simply offlined into critical starvation stasis. But he was certainly close. He might not even have the energy _left_  to process any energon taken orally. So delicious...

Jazz slunk closer, easily coming within the confines of his pet's imaginary cell.

No response.

Jazz stood over the praxian.

Not even a flicker of the optics.

"Attend." Jazz said softly. And finally the remaining optic shifted from staring at where his processor imagined the shattered remains of his other optic. There was a faint whir of lenses as the optic focused on Jazz and a faint hum of energy trailing through wires and fuel lines as the praxian's sensors tried to come up from their extreme low energy state to obey his master's command. Apparently it was more than the starved frame could maintain for a moment later it crashed, every system instantly dropping into the maximum energy conservation stasis that preceded death by starvation. Jazz smirked. Beautiful. He had more power over his little pet's frame than its most basic self preservation protocols.

Easily he re-hooked up the IV. He was running low on medical grade energon. He'd need to pick up some more. He took the cube of normal energon already there and put it in the IV bag. You weren't _supposed_  to put normal energon directly into the fuel lines, it needed some internal processing first, it was hard on the systems otherwise. And some bots seemed to think that was a bad thing, Jazz found the idea fun. Just another way to annoy the irritating medics, let them know that _he_  was in control of this situation, of the little tactician. He could do anything he liked and it was their job to clean up his mess.

Once there was enough energon in the mech to run the most basic functions Jazz began kicking him until he heard his pet's systems cycle up into normal recharge and finally back to consciousness. When the light of the solitary optic came back on Jazz smiled. "Up." He ordered, taking half a step back to make room. The praxian remained unmoving for a couple seconds, his weakened state and unprocessed energon making his processor run slow, motor functions coming back online reluctantly.

Then, without a sound, without a flicker of emotion or expression or EM field, the mech got up. It was amazing how quiet the tactician was, he moved with such perfect efficiency, without any scraping or heavy tread, and only the crackling slip-catching of damaged internal components ruined it. You'd think he'd been designed to be a spy he could move so quiet when in full repair. Jazz looked over the ruined face, the light scoring he'd done with his claws had each one been very light and shallow but he'd been playing with the praxian's face for joors while he raped his mind. There were dozens of tiny cracks and the metal had almost entirely lost its structural integrity, only a gentle caress away from crumpling completely. His pet had such a lovely face, he hoped they wouldn't replace it with a different one, it was so perfectly delightful to ruin. If they replaced it they had better give him one just as good, maybe even better? Oh but he had so many wonderful memories with this one, slowly tearing the sensitive dermal plating to bits.

Don't touch, he reminded himself, just in time. His pet had not done anything wrong, there was no reason to do such a cruel punishment at the moment, and if the faceplate went completely to bits the medics might give up on it entirely. Jazz directed his pet to take a few steps away from the wall. After a moment of slow processing his order was obeyed and Jazz circled his pet. Nothing, nothing at all. No response, no field, and his powerful audials only picked up the hum of minimal functioning of all systems. Even the mech's processor was blank, an empty datapad, waiting to be filled.

Perfect.

His perfect empty pet.

Jazz sighed and ran gentle hands over the unresponsive bot, feeling up his empty little pet, luxuriating in the emptiness of the field, no more than an unsparked mechanism would give off, as he probed every joint, testing, checking that all was blank and empty. His work was done, but he gave himself some time to enjoy it. Truly his little praxian was a work of art. Maybe it would stick this time, he'd just stay hollow and empty, completely dedicated to his function, performing every order and command with exactness, and nothing more at all. Again he was tempted to caress the ruined face, but he refrained. You could still faintly see the strong lines that shaped it, if you were familiar enough with torture to have the correct visual reconstruction protocols for the job.

But the time to enjoy his work came eventually to a close, the mech didn't even react beyond automated frame response when Jazz prodded his broken wing hinge, right in one of the damaged sensor node even. So lovely. But he had completed his work and Optimus Prime needed his tool back to work on the war. A couple joors was enough to bask. He made sure to save series of pictures, and multimedia recordings of his pretty little praxian, dead field and all, for later.

"Follow." He said and the mech immediately went to stand slightly behind and Jazz's left. The correct position for following. And Jazz led the silent mech quietly through the base, coordinating to take the path that was always subtly cleared (and out of the way anyway, a sort of back entrance really) when he needed it so no one would see the results of his work on the way to the medbay. He hummed softly to himself, content even as something in his spark edged at him. It sort of hurt but he was used to pain edging at him from his spark. That was just part of life, part of every mech's function. You just accepted it and pretended it wasn't there.

Naturally he didn't see another mech the whole way to the medbay, or when he walked his pet into the private room specifically reserved for this purpose. "Berth." He said simply and the tactician walked mechanically over and got on the medical berth. "Prowler, Release." He said, the command that would end the tactician being in 'safe mode' or 'training mode' you could call it. Instantly the light in the optic went out, the tactician falling into a soft reboot to return to his normal state. Jazz slipped out before his pet could come back online, as always. He shouldn't have to worry, the mech was in the palm of his hand and the mental blocks against connecting Jazz to his master in the mech's processor were incredibly strong, but he still preferred not to be there when the tactician came back online after a treatment, just in case.

Fear. Mistakes. Punishment.

No, he could not make mistakes. Would not make mistakes. Outside the private room was a medic, Weld... something, Jazz still couldn't remember his name most of the time. But after the first couple times, really while Jazz was still breaking his new toy in, the CMO Ratchet had refused to touch the mech. Something about Autobots hurting each other. Guilt. Emotions. Some stupid crap like that. He sometimes wondered why the medic was allowed so much rebellion against his orders. It must amuse the Prime. Sometimes he wondered what punishments were doled out in secret. But that was none of _his_  business, and here with the Autobots, punishments usually tended toward verbal or brig time, at least when Jazz failed. Which he didn't. Much. Because failure and mistakes were too dangerous.

Jazz switched his processor to other things, namely the scowling dark grey and white and red-orange medic scowling at him. He always wondered how the mech had found that color, it was exactly the color of fresh welds before they'd time to cool. A color that sent shivers down the struts even though it was just used for detailing. It made the mech look, well, freshly welded. Probably some joke about his name. Ironic his paint job would have so hot a color while the mech inside was so cold.

"You done with him?" The medic asked, voice hard and frosty, full of hate.

Jazz smirked. "Oh yes, one high performance tactical computer back up and running at full functionality." He drawled.

The medic made an ugly face. "I'm _sure_  it was worth the suffering involved." He growled acidly, the hate rolling off of him, pressing at Jazz through his field unashamedly, as if, since Weld medic couldn't attack Jazz or stop him from the job the Prime had given him, he was trying to murder Jazz using his field alone.

And Jazz luxuriated in the impotent hate. The medic was below him, he could do nothing to Jazz. And feeling all that hate made him feel so... so _powerful_. It was lovely, and this happened almost every time. "Oh, don't worry. I didn't suffer _that_  much." He purred, loving how it made the medic's hate flare higher.

The medic ground his denta, glaring such incredible hate at Jazz his optics seemed to flicker slightly, briefly changing hue. Oh it was beautiful. "I meant Prowl." The medic gritted out finally.

"Hm... well. Do you job eh? But one note. Don't replace his left optic. It needs to remain missing, important to his functionality."

"W-what?" The medic was aghast. "You want him left... maimed?"

"Not maimed," Jazz rolled the delicious word over his glossa. "Just missing an optic. It's... a reminder." The medic began snarling, optics flickering again, sparks jumping inside as parts ground together with the effort of not brutally massacring Jazz (or at least trying to). "Aw... don't be that way Weld, if it works he won't need another treatment for a long long while, maybe ever at all. You should be _happy_."

"Any more instructions?" The medic growled, flared plating rattling with the tremors going through his frame. Oh Jazz had so much power to rile the medic up. These exchanges were so so lovely.

But time was wasting, and there were limits. "Nope, that's all." He said already moving to escape out through the back entrance.

"THEN GET THE PIT OUT OF MY MEDBAY!" The medic roared, as if Jazz wasn't already making his escape. Laughter was the only response coming out from the vents the ops agent had resealed behind him.

 

 

 

 

"What? But Prowl doesn't have friends." The young medic looked at Bumblebee confused.

"Aw... it's... it's not quite like that." Bumblebee admitted embarrassed. "I just... well me and my squad would have been totally wrecked if it weren't for his quick thinking. I just wanted to thank him. But... well I haven't seen him around and I heard I might find him here?"

"Yeah, he's... he's in one of the back rooms." The medic shuffled his pedes nervously, looking down.

"So... can I visit him?"

"What? Oh yeah, sure." The medic brightened suddenly. "It'd be good for him to have a visitor beyond just us medics. I mean, a friendly face and all that. Follow me."

"Thanks... what is your name again?"

"Troubleshoot."

"Thanks Troubleshoot, I owe you one." Bumblebee said cheerfully, his brightest, friendliest smile on his faceplate. Remembering mechs' names was important skill, very valuable. It was part of what had gotten him back here to the medbay. You'd think that the Head of Tactics would be easy to find, but he hadn't been. Bumblebee had been looking for him for several orns now and finally started asking around when a mech named TrailRun suggested he try the medbay. Due to a severe lack of any other good options Bumblebee had tried it, even though Prowl had supposedly been released from medbay a quartex ago, the orn of the victory party.

And what should he find but that the mech _was_  there. Odd. He must have been mistaken about the being released thing. Whatever. At least he'd be able to see Prowl now, thank him for saving his squad. Bumblebee hummed softly to himself. That stopped when he reached the room.

Bumblebee's optics widened at the sight, the praxian was laid out on his back, helm wound in bandages and there was a fresh patch on one of his false wings. Bumblebee had always been interested in praxian frame type's almost wing-like appendages. So he noticed that they looked... slightly off. He wasn't sure how, but the way that they lay flat against the berth and the tactician's back looked... odd. Though he couldn't for the life of him figure out why.

"What happened? It's been... I didn't realize the blow to his head had been so... severe..." Bumblebee said, fumbling a bit as his processor tried to match up what he remembered with what he saw. It wasn't as if Bumblebee had memorized the other's injuries, but he knew that the mech had still _had_  both his optics at the end of the battle. One had been damaged, the tactician had taken quite a blow to the face, but wouldn't it have been _replaced_  if the damage had been that bad? Yet now only one blue lit lens stared out through the bandages. And it had been almost three quartexes, shouldn't the mech be better off than.... than this?

Yes, yes he should. Bumblebee could feel defensive protocols activating, the need to protect, the instinct that something was wrong. That instinct was part of why he had shifted mid sentence to acting as if he was accepting that it was possible instead of finishing his exclamation over how long it had it had been since the battle.

"Ah... um... yeah... it was... really bad." Troubleshoot murmured, slightly twitchy, and only more deeply entrenching Bumblebee's suspicions of foul play. "We... we are doing what we can. He's... he's going to be alright, just needs rest and healing. He... we don't have many praxians, it's a bit trickier." He mumbled and stammered as Bumblebee gave him his most innocent, worried, wide-optic-ed stare.

When it seemed the young medic had said everything he was going to Bumblebee cut in. "Well gee, poor guy. I'm glad you all are looking after him. He's lucky we have such good medics here." He said brightly. "Thanks for bringing me." He turned toward the tactician and approached carefully. Though from the lit optic it was obvious Prowl was awake, there was no response. "Hey Prowl. It's me, Bumblebee, I've come to see how you are doing."

No response.

Bumblebee got a bit closer and again there was a feeling of something being really wrong. He tried again. "Hey Prowl? Can ya hear me mech?" No response. He moved a bit closer, intending to wave his hand in front of the mech's face, maybe the mech couldn't hear him? deep in thought?

Bumblebee froze. Something... this close...

Bumblebee leaped backward, backpedaling into the wall itself. "Holy Primus! What is wrong with him?" He demanded, helm whipping to the side to stare in horror at Troubleshoot.

"What-what do you mean?" The medic stammered flinching back.

"His field mech! What-" His optics were drawn back to the mech on the berth, to the mech with a field so small and blank it hardly existed at all. "What is wr-wrong with his field..." His voice dropped into a whisper and a shudder went down his spinal struts. If he was this badly damaged, there should be pain at least, but this... it was like... like a _machine_.

"He's... he's..." Troubleshoot looked between Bumblebee and Prowl a few times before focusing on Bumblebee again. The medic shrugged helplessly. "He has always had a quiet field. Sometimes are... are just worse than others. The war has been hard on us all."

Bumblebee hesitated. That sounded like a medical condition. Bots came in all shapes and sizes, and from all sorts of backgrounds. And occasionally with all sorts of strange issues. And he would be lying if he tried to say the war hadn't changed him. He would accept that for now. Especially since... since in so many other ways the mech seemed to be in shock. Bumblebee hesitated and reached out, taking one of the white hands in his dark grey ones. It was cool, the mech's systems only a quiet hum and not enough to warm his extremities in inactivity. There was no response, not even the tiniest twitch of movement in the digits.

Shock. Deep shock. He looked over the mech, optics catching on the damaged sensor wing. That patch looked too new, the welds still being reintegrated by the frame's repair nanites. But with serious damage to the helm, integrating plating welds, when only the medics knew how much other internal damage was going on too, was a very low priority. Damage to praxian almost-wings was supposed to be incredibly traumatic. That could be a source of shock.

And yet there were so many red flags that something was wrong, wrong with all of these things.

But Troubleshoot, nervous and edgy, was trying to act as if all this could easily be explained by the battle. And maybe it could. And even if it couldn't Bumblebee would be pit-spawn if he didn't pretend it did until he understood what _exactly_  was going on. He softened his expression and looked over at the medic. "I know you are busy, is it okay if I stay a while?" He asked in an easy, concerned voice that was easy to pull off because he _was_  concerned. The only trick was to keep himself from sounding upset or suspicious.

"Oh I'm not sure that... well... um..." Troubleshoot hesitated, thinking, and softening under the mini-bot's concerned gaze. "Okay, but not too long." His shoulders sagged slightly. "Primus knows he could use a friendly presence, even if he is too out of it to talk to you."

"It's okay. It's probably the pain blockers huh? They always make me real woozy and I hear they affect different mechs differently." He gave the medic a sad worried smile, internally smiling a bit wider at how Troubleshoot seemed to perk up at the explanation he supplied.

"Yeah, that is probably it." The medic said, relief obvious. Troubleshoot was a _terrible_  liar. Something was definitely up, and now the medic thought that Bumblebee was convinced nothing was. Good. It would be much easier to trick this young mech than the other more experienced (see jaded) medics on base. Not that Bumblebee had been here on the Iacon base long enough to know them all very well yet. "Well... I'll just leave you to it. You can see yourself out when you are done or drop a com to the general medical frequency and I or someone else will show you out okay? Just remember, don't stay too long." And he shook an admonishing finger at Bumblebee before hurrying off to his own duties.

Bumblebee stayed by the berth-side, holding Prowl's hand and talking quietly for quite a while. In part to make sure that Troubleshoot or another medic wouldn't stop by to check or throw him out suddenly, but also in the hopes that the injured mech would respond in some way. But there was nothing. Not the slightest twitch, no fluctuation in the seeming dead field, not even a shift in the optics staring unfocused at the ceiling.

Well, if he waited too long someone was bound to come by sooner or later. Now was the perfect time to snoop.

Bumblebee wasn't special ops, he had no official training as an agent, for infiltration, spying, or hacking. But that didn't mean he didn't have some skills. Something was up, and he wanted to know what. And, since the tactician was catatonic and no one was around, Bumblebee walked boldly over to the datapad in the holder on the wall. Being bold was the key, if he snuck around that would attract attention. Act like you had every right to do what you were doing and people wouldn't spare you a second glance unless they noticed something else glaringly obvious. And the datapad was in his hand and the panel at his wrist opened and there, he was hacking it.

He wasn't a criminal, but mini-bots had a strong sense of community, and after what Prowl had done to save him and his squad, Bumblebee had a vested interest in the mech. Yes, it was snooping but it was _for a good cause_. He needed to make sure the mech was okay.

The medical report he found chilled him to his spark.

 

 **Patient:** Prowl: Autobot Head Tactician

Broken sensor wing, other has puncture hole in it, both badly dented. Sensor wing hinges badly warped from being hung upside down, left broken entirely. Audial right mangled, one serious raking, spread hand gripped into a fist. Dented abdominal plating from repeated kicks. Dragged across floor, plating abraded left side. Minor painful more than damaging cuts all around right audial, little on left. Dent in left side of helm.  
Internals damaged, ground together, excessive wear and tear from internal conflict.  
Dangerously under-fueled.  
Face shredded, few actual punctures but thousands and thousands of minor scratches all layered over each other until most of the structural integrity was lost. Bleeding all over, any and all movements of the faceplates causes cracks and ruptures.  
Especially scored in circular motions all around the left optic socket, dermal layer carved away for quite a space around where optic was housed. Left optic removed by tearing, connecting components broken apart.

 **Psychological and code trauma:** Unassessed  
**Orders:** Repair, do not replace left optic

 

**Treatment Plan:**

**Sensor Wing hinges:** Do _not_  touch exposed area on back: **Flagged:** Ratchet  
Removed: WeldJob  
Rebuild: Perceptor  
Completion: Pending  
Install: Ratchet  
Completion: Pending part rebuild

 **Sensor Wing right:** Patched: WeldJob

 **Internals:** Leave to auto-repair, enforced berth rest

 **Faceplate:** Check twice ornly, redo bandages each time  
Assess: Orn 4  
Query: Full replacement necessary?

 **Left Optic socket:** Check twice ornly  
Repair: WeldJob  
Patch: WeldJob  
Completion: Pending

 **Right Audial:** Remain deactivated, check twice ornly, redo bandages  
Repair: WeldJob  
Test: Orn 4

 **Left Audial:** Check ornly

 **Dents:** Repaired: WeldJob  
Check for Internal Damages: WeldJob  
Completion: Fulfilled

 **IV:** Full praxian supplements added to Med Grade, 4 orns then reassess

 

Bumblebee read the report in growing horror. He knew torture when he saw it, and found himself glancing over at the damaged tactician repeatedly, connecting the horrible words to the wounds and injuries hidden by mesh bandages. And what was with that part about the order not to replace his missing optic? Bumblebee felt his vents stuttering and clamping closed, as if the air of the room had turned to some sort of poison that his frame was desperately trying to keep out.

No wonder the mech was in shock.

Bumblebee forced his frame back under control, forcing his vents to obey, slow in and out before his frame overheated. How had this happened? How on Cybertron had Prowl gotten into such a state? He was discharged from the medbay early the orn of the party. This indicated Prowl had been readmitted only four orns later. A short time to have Autobot head of tactical captured, tortured, and rescued. And there hadn't been a whisper of Prowl being captured in all that time. Someone that important, even if they had tried to keep it under wraps, somehow it would have leaked, or it would now that Prowl was back.

It didn't make sense.

Which meant someone was hiding something.

And had been stupid enough to let Bumblebee see the injured tactician and realize.

He just hoped he wouldn't regret what he found.

 

 

 

 

There was someone there, in the private room of the medbay. They were talking to him. But his programming did not recognize the voice as belonging to his master, a medic, or any of his commanding officers. The voice was not important. The voice was ignored.

Eventually the voice went away.

Finally.

Alone again. Nothing required of him.

Better this way.

One hand came up to his ruined face and prodded at the socket where his optic had been, the last connection to Prowl. It had been difficult to convince the medics to let him keep it.

But now it was gone. Taken by his master as punishment for his sins and destroyed.

There was nothing left.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ratchet might not want to have anything to do with 'Jazz's work' but he won't let anyone but him do something as tricky as reinstalling a praxian's door hinges  
> And before you ask, yes, the door-wings are still attached, all the wires and stuff intact so the sensor-net is still fully there, just the hinges and connective parts were cut out and Perceptor is rebuilding them, it is faster and less painful than letting them heal on their own.


	6. Recovery

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Strange chapter is strange. I hope you enjoy, sorry it is late.
> 
> Bumblebee tries to work his magic. We got some new players.

Today the medics booted up his right audial for the first time and tested it. It did not function correctly. They wanted him to give them feedback but he could not understand their questions. Mostly there was static coming in from the repaired audial. It hurt. But even pain was dull. It wasn't his audial damaged, the pain of it wasn't his either. They were all second hand. All of it. Even his life, second hand. He felt nothing. There was pain inside, but it wasn't his. They checked his faceplate, clucked and fussed over it. They were worried. He should console them. He should not worry others. But the words got lost somewhere on the way to someone else's vocalizer along the second hand wires that connected all these bits of metal and machinery that housed spark and processor that might or might be his.

He was empty inside. Nothing left. Except the computer. With the computer came purpose. He tried to boot it up, but it did not hear his commands. Disconnected. Often the medics did this while he was in medbay. "The Tactical computer." He said, the words managing to make it all the way out of his vocalizer this time.

"No. You must rest."

"Work will help." The words were flat and toneless. The voice of a machine. That was all he was, a machine. He tried to sit up but the medic put a hand on his shoulder and held him down.

"Your sensor wings are still not fully connected Prowl."

"I must work."

"No, you need to rest. Stop talking so much, you are damaging your faceplate."

He considered the words for a while. "I must work." He said again. "Or put me in stasis." he hesitated, there was a word that he wanted to put there, a word that hurt, and didn't fully feel like it belonged to him. "Please." Anything not to be trapped alone in his mind with the horrible emptiness.

"Fine, fine. But you musn't sit up or strain yourself." WeldJob. That was the name of the medic. Weldjob was always the one treating him after his master was done with him. A faint thought flickered, an observation that Weldjob was failing. The data skittered and jumped in his helm. Putting him back together over and over was slowly taking the medic apart. WeldJob did not deserve this. WeldJob was good and kind and compassionate. He did not deserve to suffer like this.

"If you get tired hit the buzzer and I will put you offline for the night. No dreams in medical stasis." The medic's large hand patted the hand that was only sort of his. It was attached to his frame, but it didn't feel like his. None of it did. These, all these things, they had belonged to other mechs, or some to Prowl. But Prowl was gone, he was just a stranger here, in this frame in this place. None of these things were his, they didn't belong to him, they didn't feel connected. Nothing felt. He didn't feel.

The tactical computer came on with a soft whir and he began to work, reviewing previous data, picking up on the tasks he had been working on before the battle while he sent a comm to one of the other tacticians to bring datapads, his work, to the medbay for him to start working on. Time had passed, there would be much to do. There were many things only he could do, and much much data to be absorbed and integrated into his systems so as to optimize his predictive software's results.

There was work, he had his function. All else was gone, him just an impostor where Prowl had been. But he had the tactical computer, and there was the work, and someone must do it.

This was his purpose.

He must do it.

 

 

 

"Hello. Is this Perceptor's workshop?" Bumblebee asked as he strode into the workshop with wide innocent optics. A large red transformers with what looked like some sort of cannon on his left shoulder looked up and over from talking with another large primarily white transformer of unusual specs and red and green markings. Then he looked down and Bumblebee felt his smile go slightly brittle.

"Yes, yes it is. And I am Perceptor. What can I do for you?" the red one asked brightly, though sounding a bit befuddled. But not patronizing. Bumblebee's smile relaxed. He had been hoping to catch the scientist alone, and quickly rearranged his admittedly sparse plan.

"Oh not much. I'm just new to the base and I am trying to meet everyone, get a feel for how things run here and what not. You know, the usual." He said cheerily.

The scientist practically beamed at him. "Not the usual at all. Very few bother to come visit us scientists without a problem that needs solving." Perceptor paused a moment, eagerness in his field. "You don't have a problem for us to solve do you?"

"No? Not really."

"Oh." The red mech deflated slightly and the other laughed at him. And the sound was so joyfully carefree that after a moment Bumblebee joined in.

"Ignore my enlightened friend, he just loves a good puzzle." The mostly white mech said, the fins on the sides of his helm lighting with each word. Bumblebee wondered briefly if there was a reason for it, and what that might be. "Name's Wheeljack, I'm chief Engineer here at Iacon." He offered a large hand to the mini-bot. Bumblebee regarded the hand warily. "Oh, you've heard of me huh? Don't worry, it won't explode." He said, dermal plating crinkled around his bright blue optics.

Bumblebee gave a nervous laugh, unable to tell if the engineer was joking or not. But the other's grip was strong, an honest handshake if he'd ever felt one and, in spite of himself, the mini-bot relaxed. "My name's Bumblebee sir. As I've said I'm rather new hereabouts."

"Wonderful." Wheeljack turned to Perceptor. He hadn't released Bumblebee's hand. "What do you say we show him some of the things we've been working on Perceptor?"

"That sounds wonderful." The scientist replied and then looked to Bumblebee, optics glowing with excitement. "I mean, if you have some time, and it wouldn't bore you too much." He added, barely managing not to look outright pleading.

Luckily that was, more or less, exactly what he had been hoping for. Perceptor was listed to be the one rebuilding the injured tactician's sensor wing hinges. Besides his normal curiosity about praxian false wings, it was likely that the scientist might know a bit more about what had happened, and how long it took to cause such damage. And if he'd needed to do so before. No, Bumblebee didn't want to even think of _that_  possibility. But looking around the scientist's workshop might give him the perfect opportunity to find the complex hinges and ask. Pit, the two were so excited when he agreed, Wheeljack dragging him along by his captured hand as if afraid Bumblebee might bolt if he loosened his grip in the slightest, that he thought it likely the two would show him the hinges outright.

They didn't.

Or at least not during the first three joor as he was dragged around and shown all sorts of bizarre _things_ , most of those on the 'joint projects' side of Perceptor's otherwise immaculate lab in various stages of construction, while the scientist and the engineer went on and on and on and _on_  and on an on about all sorts of theoretical physics and formulas and equations that Bumblebee couldn't begin to understand. By the end of the second joor a large holoscreen had been booted up and the two were drawing out and explaining some sort of engine? Using equations full of symbols he didn't recognize and after a while the calm excited discussion devolved into an argument about the proper use of queltek radicals in something called a gluon inhibitor? whatever _that_  meant. Soon they had forgotten about Bumblebee entirely and, much to his shame, instead of sticking around to snoop, as perhaps he should, the yellow mini-bot chose to escape, deciding to come back sometime when the red scientist was alone after all.

Or not at all.

No wonder they had been so excited to have someone to show things too, they probably didn't get any repeat visitors. _Ever_.

 

 

 

Now that he was working again Prowl did not notice when others entered his small private room in the medbay. His sensors would pick them up, he might even hear them, but the data was routinely discarded as inessential unless one of the medics directly questioned him. He immersed himself in the work, his work, that which defined and was the reason for his entire existence. Numbers and information were drawn in, fed into the powerful computer locked inside his frame, and new numbers and information came out. He couldn't sit up to read datapads so he simply linked directly into them, several at a time, directly downloading the data and sorting through it, reviewing it manually, codifying it, sorting it, creating direct reports for the Prime and others of command staff, making plans, predicting enemy movements, sending out requests for clarification or more data as needed.

One of the younger tacticians would come by twice a shift to collect old datapads and bring new ones, sending out the order forms and reports to where they needed to go and filing the rest according to the instructions left in the topmost datapad. He was nothing more than a machine, the powerful tactical computer the Autobots needed to win the war. Slowly grinding the Decepticons down, raiding their supply depots, while protecting those of the Autobots. Detect their sneak attacks, from direct spy reports or indirect inference from the patterns in troop movements and supply trains, or the 'writing on the walls' the special ops were getting so good at reading and reporting. They were outnumbered and outgunned, even though the terrible robosmasher had finally been destroyed (though none knew for certain by whom, it was said that Omega Supreme, last of the now extinct or missing guardian robots, had been involved), and yet they were, slowly, winning.

It still ~~felt like~~

It still was a strange sort of torture, looking at those ~~horrible awful grim~~

It was still unpleasant to look at the numbers and probabilities and see how close, each orn, they stood to the edge of disaster. It would not take much to destroy the Autobots, for all the victories they had won. He could see all the holes, the dangers, the looming catastrophes, that hung over the brave but not battle built Autobots. In the end, mech for mech, the Decepticons were bigger, stronger, and all around better suited for battle. They were 98.125% war-builds, while the Autobots were less than a single percentile by nature though as they had been collecting and refining resources nearly a third had been upgraded into war-builds. It was never enough. The bucket was full of holes and the energon leaked out, the lifeblood of his people, of those he was meant to protect spilling out to stain the whole world that brightly glowing blue that faded slowly, turning to darkness. The blood of Primus, spilled out, their very god dying, through the cut throats and laser blasted frames of His children.

There was that voice again. The one dismissed as unimportant before, returned again, and brought to his notice because of the touch that accompanied it.

Someone was touching him.

Like a Seeker shot from the sky his mind crashed down from the realm of numbers and planning back into full awareness of his frame. A groan escaped his vocalizer before he was fully cognizant of it, and his one optic flickered, re-calibrating as it tried to make sense of what it was seeing. But first his mind went to the sensation of touch coming in from his sensornet. Even with the pain blockers he still hurt, and after being so fully disconnected from his frame by his tactical programming it took a while to sort out where exactly all the different sensations were coming from even as more sounds, more words, tried to trickle in through his sole functioning audial.

Someone was holding his hand.

He ran the thought through his logic center a couple times, hoping that it would make more sense, triple and quadruple checking the data that had led to the conclusion. The conclusion was accurate. But it still made no sense. He tried rebooting his entire sensornet, a tricky and complicated endeavor as frames were designed to hold tightly to all sensory input and would fight efforts to completely rob the processor of input even for the few nanokliks required for a full system reboot. When everything came back on the conclusion was still the same.

He turned his head slightly, toward where his partially numb sensor wing's environmental sensors detected the intruder to his private recovery room. His first thought was yellow. It was so, incredibly yellow. His processor whirred unhappily for a while, but the fact that someone, anyone, would be holding _his_  hand was so completely ludicrous his logic center had all but given up already and had shut down, refusing to assess the reasonableness of anything anymore. Without it the whole world felt surreal, all data coming in being flagged as unconfirmed for now. Slowly the yellow and black mini-bot came into focus, of both his single optic and the other sensors he had. The mech was still talking, though none of the sounds were being parsed into words or recorded for later review.

He just stared at the mech, who was cheerfully chattering on, apparently unbothered by the fact that Prowl was not responding in any way. He could feel his logic center slowly coming back up, assessing and validating the information coming in from his sensors. There was indeed a yellow mini-bot sitting next to his medical berth, holding his hand and talking in an endless cheerful rhythm. It didn't make sense, but it was true. The touch was so _gentle_. He could not remember a time anyone had touched him so gently other than his master. It made him feel. It made the hand at the end of that arm that was attached to him feel like it actually belonged to him, as if it were a part of him. That didn't make sense either.

He stared at the dark grey, almost black hands that were clasped around his white one, the wrist port open, data cables extended to link into the datapads stacked on the berth next to him. It didn't make sense. Why would anyone? Who would? He turned his gaze up to the mech's face, the bright blue optics, so pure and kind, and felt a strange stirring inside him. There was true concern in those optics.

It was too much. He shuttered his optic and dropped offline, retreating to the darkness of recharge where nothing was required of him.

 

 

 

 

Bumblebee stayed a joor longer after the tactician had dropped off, still talking in a soft soothing, rolling beat he had perfected long ago to help the sick and dying or those who simply were having trouble falling into recharge. He had hoped that Prowl might wake up again but the tactician did not and now his own berth was calling to him. He didn't exactly have a lot of time off and he really should be getting to bed or he wouldn't get enough rest before his next shift.

He considered unplugging the datapads from the sleeping tactician but that seemed the wrong thing to do. Prowl knew what he was doing surely and wouldn't take kindly to Bumblebee's interference. He had feared that this visit would have gone as the others had, completely ignored by the tactician who seemed more machine than mech, field as dead and empty as a computer. But after he had taken the mech's hand things had changed. For the first time, that single optic staring out through the mesh bandages that perpetually wrapped around the praxian's helm, focused. And as he had gently rubbed the white digits, long slow relaxing strokes, the tactician had actually turned his helm to regard him. It was hard to read an expression without a field to taste or anything more than a single optic, not even the rim of the metal of the faceplate visible around it, just the center of the optic sensor, staring at him.

But he liked to think he saw expressions in the silently shifting lenses, as if he could see the spark through the blue cyberglass, unnaturally pale, as if the color had been bleached out. First had been incomprehension, and after that... well more incomprehension. He'd heard the whirring of the danger of a logic crash, and then that single optic had just turned to stare at him. He liked to think that he was reaching the mech through the pain and shock that seemed to have all but buried Prowl deep inside himself, even as his own plating felt like it was trying to crawl away from that flat unnatural field. And then, in a brief but glorious flicker, he'd felt something. It hadn't been gratitude, or loneliness, or even pain. But there had been a tiny flicker of confusion in that field, a tiny bit of life, a glow of light in that darkest of night.

And then it was gone and the mech had soon drifted into deep recharge. He liked to think it was because the mech had gained some comfort from Bumblebee's presence, from the gentle voice and field, and the soft touches on that pale hand. The hands were the most sensitive part of a mechanism's frame, the instruments of work and function, where all the most important delicacy of touch was necessary. Cybertronians might tend to clomp around and be generally uncareful by nature, but their hands, with the power to create, was where all that focus of powerful processors usually centered and all the most important data came in from, allowing them to shape their environment, to rise above the ranks of mere machines or mechanimals.

It was interesting that it had been the touches to his hand that had finally gotten the tactician's attention, finally woken him, if ever so briefly, from his near obliviated state, made Prowl cognizant of Bumblebee's presence and spurred that brief flash of life. There was hope after all. Whatever had happened to the tactician to reduce him to this state, the mech was still in there, and he had been able to stir. That made a small warmth start in Bumblebee's spark. He'd started to feel a something for the pathetic wreck over all these visits, a something made much stronger now that he had a personal proof that the mech really was a person not some glorified dead fielded machine. He wanted to help the tactician. Prowl had helped, had saved his pacemates, his family, it was only fitting that Bumblebee try to help or save Prowl in return, whichever the mech might need.

"Heading out?" A medic with a rather fierce looking paintjob of dark deactivated grey, white, and fresh-weld red-orange edging asked as Bumblebee headed toward the door.

"Yeah. Weldjob is it?" Bumblebee asked, stretching a bit, hiding a smug smile as he saw the medic straighten slightly, puffing his chest a bit at the indirect compliment of Bumblebee having remembered his name. Names were important to people, he'd learned that early on. If you remembered a person's name, especially that of a person who spent most their function overlooked and ignored by others, you were halfway to having their loyalty already.

"Yeah. He talk to you this time?" Weldjob asked gruffly, crossing huge arms, even for a bulk, across his massive chassis.

"No, but he looked at me, for a while, then he dropped off into recharge." Bumblebee looked back at the tactician, feeling a strange affection for the mech who he'd never actually talked to.

"What?" Weldjob looked at Bumblebee as if the mini-bot had grown wings and transformed into a seeker.

"Uh... you know, when a bot goes offline to defrag and rest their circuits and... recharge and stuff." He fumbled. Seriously, Weldjob was a medic, he should know, he _did_  know, so why was he looking at Bumblebee like he was off his rocker?

The medic shook his head. "He _never_ goes into recharge on his own. I've been having to put him down ever since his tac-net came back online." He stared a few moments at the unconscious mech then looked back to Bumblebee, placing a massive hand on the minibot's shoulder. "You are a good mech little Bee. You are welcome here, to visit anytime. I will tell the others not to bother you."

"I thought Ratchet was the CMO..."

Weldjob gestured vaguely. "He will agree. You've helped Prowl a lot if you managed to help him get to sleep." He looked down at Bumblebee and gave the first smile Bumblebee had ever seen, a small weak thing, but real, and honest. "Now run off, you look like you are in need of recharge too. Can't go hurtin' yourself from helping others." The medic growled, expression returning to its usual sternness, though perhaps not so dark and heavy as before.

"Yes sir." Bumblebee said and scurried off, glad to be out from under those huge heavy hands. He had learned a lot from that brief exchange. He wasn't sure _what_  he had learned from it, processor already starting to become muggy with exhaustion, but he _had_ learned it. Berth, figure these things out later. Tomorrow things would make more sense. Hopefully.

Somehow he was going to unwind the mystery that surrounded the praxian tactician, he hoped that it would just turn out that he had been briefly captured and tortured by Decepticons, and that all he needed was support and a good friend to help get his pedes under him. But if what he needed was more, and there were plenty of signs of foul play, he was game for that too.


	7. One Step Forward, Two Steps Back

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It has been a week (quartex) or two since Bumblebee first got through to Prowl, but things haven't been going as smoothly as anyone could have hoped.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Short chapter is short. And probably disappointing, But it felt like the right place to stop, and I don't want to be late.

Numbers numbers numbers. Endless streams of data, info from a hundred different reports from all across Cybertron. But it was never enough. He needed so much more, more information, more clarity, more details. If he knew it all he might be able to keep them all safe. That was his purpose. And trapped in the medbay like this he could not direct active battles like at his command station. It was frustrating, looking at the list of casualties from the battle near what had once been Praxus earlier that orn. He always insisted on casualty lists being detailed with names, causes of deaths, and if possible who had killed them and who had interacted with them before and after. He knew the others feared that the additional details were simply a tool for self flagellation. They didn't understand that he kept a running list of every individual of every Autobot base, though usually he had the benefit of being directly linked to his expanded databases in his office and command center to store and manage all that data.

No one seemed to realize it was the small things, as much as the big, that gave Prowl the ability to predict things so accurately, how it was his understanding of the inner workings and individual capabilities of the Autobots in each location as much as his understanding of what the Decepticons were up to that allowed him to maximize their potential to succeed. Blaster might be head of Autobot Intelligence but it was Prowl who used and recorded every last byte of data that came in. He was going to have to rehook-up to his full auxiliary databanks soon, to properly update the numerical values stored in his tactical computer that could not be recalculated without access to all available data. Yes there were other mechs in the tactical department, many quite brilliant and skilled, placed and deployed carefully across the globe to maximize their benefit to the Autobot cause, many trained by him (or under him) as the current half dozen that made up the rest of the tactical department here at Iacon were.

They were doing well, and those who had run the battle earlier that orn had done quite well too. But the losses were still too much, too many, and their cost to the Decepticons too low. It ate him, gnawing at wires and fuel lines, numbing them and stinging. If he had been monitoring from afar there were just a couple things he might have been able to predict or manage the tiniest bit better. 98.924% chance the casualties would have been lower by 8. 75.192% he would have saved Erstwhile. 84.294% YeildWind. 63.135% Hovertrain. 92.431% the noble tankformer TireFight. 62.492% RunTime. 49.382% Flatback. 78.481% TireIron, an engineer who never should have been allowed into the line of fire. The loss of TireIron was an especially bad one and for a while his review was sidelined by rapid calculations of the effect it would have. Those were grim. He put out a note to have Wheeljack review TireIron's work and notes and recommend someone to take over the research. Perhaps have Perceptor conduct the same evaluation, separately.

That done his tactical computer went back to the list of the deceased, calculating the probabilities (including that his small modifications might have saved), and noting down who seemed to have been affected most by the losses, who hadn't, and who had simply been there. Until he got back to his full databanks he could not properly calculate the effect this would have on each individual mech and simply saved the data for later evaluation, forced to accept the data at face value for now.

_If you hadn't had to go through that punishment session you would have been in your command center. You would have been able to save some of them. You might have been able to save TireIron. TireIron's work had a 68.295% probability of ending the war in the Autobot's favor in the next 14 vorns._

He flinched and shuddered, hands flexing, almost reaching up to tear the bandages from his helm. If he hadn't needed that punishment session, if he had just been a better mech, they wouldn't have died, and the war might have been ended in just 14 more vorns. His fault. His crimes. How could he just lay here like a useless lump? He wanted to tear the bandages away and march out of the medbay back to his office. Didn't they understand? Mechs were _dying_  because of him.

"Prowl?" His optic flashed and focused on the large frame at the door to the private room. WeldJob, looking worried. "Prowl, your monitors were going off. What is going on?"

He forced his vents to be even, frame cooling. It was illogical to get upset about things that were past. He shuttered his optic briefly, then opened it again, in control. "We lost a lot of good mechanisms this morning." He said, voice rough from disuse. But at least he could speak without his face hurting anymore. He hated pain and that small relief lessened the overall stress on his taxed systems.

The medic sighed and came over, trying to look comforting. "It isn't your fault."

Typical sentimental lie. Entirely predictable. But arguing would only upset the overwrought medic. "How much longer must I remain here?"

"Better if you stayed another quartex but if you take it easy on your sensor wings, or wear a brace, and come in for twice daily check-ups I can let you out day after tomorrow." The medic reported with a scowl, irritated but knowing he couldn't really stop his patient from doing exactly whatever he decided to.

The tactical computer whirred, processing the new information. "I take it my personal appearance will be sufficient not to cause problems then?"

"It would be better if you wore a bag over your head but most ignore you enough not to cause a blow to morale." The medic replied, upper lip curling almost into a disgusted sneer.

"And staying here longer would not, naturally, due to so few actively noticing my presence." He concluded impassively. He understood it was important not to be out and about when it was too obvious he had been badly injured by his master. Things, personal things like that, were important to keep quiet and hidden. The other Autobots didn't need to know what a monster he was that he needed such drastic punishments to keep him in line. He wished he was a better mechanism, a better person, so he wouldn't deserve to suffer so much. Especially when such suffering, when his punishments, put other mechanism's lives in danger or led to their deactivation. He just wanted...

Just wanted...

Wanted what? He didn't even know. It was hard to want, an exhausting strain, and he wasn't even sure if he was _allowed_  to want. But it was still there, that faint, flickering, desperate yearning deep in his spark for something he couldn't have, couldn't even name anymore.

"Prowl, I need to change your bandages again."

He made a noncommittal sound, letting his mind drift back into his world of numbers and probabilities and evaluations of the last battle. He worked as the medic did, each on their own tasks, his of numbers and mechs, and the medic's the all important work of repair. The repair that kept them all going, the repair that kept those who should have died alive. Putting them together, bits and pieces, living and dead, new and old, machined and crafted. The endless empty frames, nothing more than husks without a spark to grant them life, fluids spilled across the floor, across the ground, across the whole world. Energon, coolant, dielectric oil, optical cleanser, lubricant, the liquids that kept everything in the many kinds of mechanism running smoothly and alive, all spread out and mixing.

"Your visitor is coming again." WeldJob said, after giving the tactician's aching right audial a couple gentle raps to get the mech's attention. It had finally been repaired enough to function again, though some of the deeper cuts still hurt.

"No."

"What do you mean no? He _is_  coming." The medic replied, getting out some medical polish, and working it into the damaged metal, feeding raw materials to the auto-repair nanites there. It had been a long time since they had had access to medical nanites, something greatly missed by the war effort. Anything that could save lives as those had, or even just to repair the damage WeldJob and the others were expected to hide from the tactician's 'sessions' would have been a great help. But the technology to make the nanites had been lost in the seeming endless war, and attempts at redeveloping it were going poorly. Everyone still had their own nanites and auto-repair systems still, but they were lost a bit at a time, a bit at a time, and no longer could be replenished except by those few mechanisms who generated extra to be extracted and reformatted, but never enough for the needs of war. Ratchet and the other medical scientists were desperately trying to rediscover the lost very valuable tech with moderate help from the few engineers left who had the slightest understanding of nanotechnologies.

"I said he is coming, he is at the door right now." WeldJob repeated, waking Prowl from his reverie.

"No." Prowl turned his head away from the medic. He would have rolled over if his sensor wings were not pinned beneath him. Praxians were not built to roll around. If you were on your back you stayed there until you could get up. He was going to have to put extra resources and priorities to the medical nanites project, especially with TireIron gone. Somewhere he would find it, he had to, to keep his Autobots alive.

"No what?"

"Send him away."

"Again? I _had_  heard you were having him sent away, I just didn't _want to believe it_. You can't do that Prowl. He is the first person who's bothered to show up and check on you in several dozen vorns."

"Send him away. I am busy."

"Like Pit you are Prowl." Was the snarled response.

He gave the medic an intent look. Once upon a time he remembered his looks had the power to freeze other mechs and make even stubborn wills crumple like tinfoil. For a while he mused at the strange memory surges, he hadn't thought of anything like that in a long time, except when his master was tearing at his personal memory drives, nothing so forward or assertive as such things, much less contemplating doing such things. But his looks, his... what were they called? Glares? They had once had great force, but that was an emotional thing, that had been something, a quality Prowl had, the one who had once been here. He had no such power. Yet further proof that he was not, in fact, Prowl.

And one of the machines was complaining, an alert that hurt his recently renewed audial, and seemed to pulse in sync with the ache inside him. The alarm faded as WeldJob fiddled with the machine. He wasn't Prowl, Prowl was gone, he didn't have Prowl's strength or fortitude or even that last optic that last part of the mech. "Just... leave me alone. Please." He found the words escaping, unwanted unnecessary, _emotional_. Again there was flicker of something in his mind, something that couldn't possibly be, something he fought not to see, not to let himself know. He didn't know why. But soon it faded away again, retreating into the depths of his tactical computer. It had been there since he had first come online after his session, after his master left. It was dangerous, everything in him fought against it. It would kill him. He didn't know what it was. But he knew it was deadly dangerous anyway. But it was gone again, retreated far away and his mind was closing up over where it had been, hiding even the memories of the resurgence as if nothing of it had happened.

"Prowl." Weldjob's tired voice was worried.

"Don't call me that."

"It is your name."

"I... don't let him come in. I... it is a distraction. I have my purpose, I must work. I have to protect them."

"Calm down. I... I'll keep him out. But it would do you good to have some friends. You have to let someone in Prowl." The medic patted him gently on one shoulder and went to the door, slipping outside quietly.

"I don't deserve friends." He whispered softly, lone optic focusing on the door, listening to the soft voices outside. Again there was that strange longing inside him. Wishing he was better, didn't do such terrible things, didn't deserve to suffer so much.

Maybe if he worked harder, did a better job, saved more lives he could deserve to-

No. It was wrong of him to even hope. If his master knew he was even thinking these things he would be punished.

He didn't want to be punished anymore, he just wanted the pain to stop. He shuttered his remaining optic and a tiny flow of cleansing fluid seeped out.

 

 

"I don't get it." Bumblebee said, crestfallen, his internals feeling as if they were knotting together. "After the other day... I thought, I dunno, that we _connected_ or something."

WeldJob, to his credit, looked about as discouraged as Bumblebee felt, heaving a long slow sigh (And how long, sheesh, some bulks were _huge_ ) "I thought so too." He said quietly and straightened a bit to focus his odd colored optics on the yellow minibot "I think he felt it too and it scared him."

Bumblebee shuttered his optics then rebooted them a couple times, feeling his logic center draw a blank on him. "Scared him?" He repeated finally when he could think again.

The medic shrugged helplessly. "It has been a long time since he has had anyone kind close to him." And Bumblebee's quick mind caught on that qualifier, kind, taking it to imply that there were ones close to Prowl that were _un_ kind. Another red flag, an indicator of a hidden evil. A voice screaming the word abuse. "I think... I think it freaked him out. He doesn't have any friends or associate with anyone outside of work or the medbay when he ends up damaged. We care about him here but there is only so much we can do, this is a war and a medic's work is never done. I don't think he knows how to deal with his own emotions, he's got a brilliant mind, a processor like you wouldn't believe, but his emotional center is lacking, almost underdeveloped and... well... you've been here long enough to hear the rumors."

"You mean the ones about him being a drone not a fully sparked mechanism?"

"Yeah, those ones." Weldjob scratched at a deep and ancient scar in his plating on one forearm nervously. Bumblebee was silent, simply staring up at the oversized mech with bright, plaintive optics. "He isn't though." The medic burst out, unable to take the silence any longer, field reflecting his own surprise. He usually wasn't so easy to unbalance, but... well seeing Prowl like that just a little while ago... and after how much he'd hoped the little minibot could help... His engine let out an unhappy grumble. "I don't know what all has happened to him little Bee, but he has been a mess as long as I have been here. Brilliant, strong, but fragile too. Too much of the war rests on his shoulders, almost as heavy as on our Prime himself, but unlike the Prime, Prowl has no support. Well plenty of support in his work he just... he just doesn't have any friends. So... please be patient with him. Just... don't get discouraged quite yet, keep trying and I am sure he will open up to you Okay?"

"Okay" Bumblebee said softly, wishing he could ask the medic outright if Prowl was being abused by a fellow Autobot or secret 'lover' or what and why nothing was being done about it. But everyone was still acting as if the mech's injuries were just from the battle, which meant someone was watching, someone dangerous, and this place was too exposed, too public for him to dare try speaking openly about hidden things. But he had moved WeldJob over to the category of 'people who will help if it comes down to it'. In a way, he almost felt that WeldJob had been trying to declare that (and that something nasty and secretive _was_ going on) with his clumsy words, but Bumblebee couldn't be sure. "I will keep trying then. He seems like a good mech from what I've heard and one who could use a good friend." He gave the medic one of his cheery smiles and headed out. He needed more answers. Maybe it was time to try cornering Perceptor. Head of security would be better but he had yet to find the elusive mech, so the scientist tasked to repair praxian false-wing hinges would have to do.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Tune in next week for Prowl being out of the medbay and plot moving forward


	8. Perceptor

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bumblebee finally corners a certain scientist to milk him for all the information he might have on this situation.

Perceptor's lab was quiet today as Bumblebee pressed one audial against the smooth door. There were sounds coming from inside, even a bit of humming it seemed, but it was far quieter than the usual arguing and banging and occasional pop and crackle of small explosions. Bumblebee smiled a slightly mischievous smile. Wheeljack must not be there this time, just Perceptor. Jackpot.

He palmed the scanner and the door opened with a soft whoosh. As he expected, the large red scientist was alone in his lab, fiddling with a complicated looking something and frequently looking up and over at blueprints being displayed on the holotable. Hearing the door Perceptor turned, an amiable smile on his face that widened with true delight when he saw Bumblebee. "Ah! It's you!" He said, carefully setting what he was working on onto the holotable, the project blocking out part of the blueprint projection. "It's... no, don't tell me." He tapped at his chin a moment then his optics brightened. "Bumbledee right?"

Bumblebee chuckled, somewhat flattered that the scientist remembered though he had only turned up once. "Bumblebee sir."

"Oh! So very close." He seemed a bit disappointed in himself but gestured for Bumblebee to come in. "Come in come in, so tell me Bumble _bee_ , what is it I can do for you? I'm sorry about last time, we scientists can get rather carried away at times. But I suppose we wouldn't be scientists or engineers if we did not love our work." He chuckled good-naturedly. "So what is it you said I could do for you?"

Bumblebee meanwhile had been carefully walking further into the lab in an easy unconcerned way without being purposely nonchalant. He felt a small glow of satisfaction as he heard the door snik shut. Privacy, no eavesdroppers so long as neither of them yelled. It was possible the scientist's lab was bugged but he could see no obvious cameras like all throughout the halls and public areas of the base. It was time to ask some questions that no one wanted to answer. Questions that might cause terrible problems for him and the scientist, and maybe even Prowl. But Bumblebee needed answers as to what was going on. He might not be able to get much information from the scientist, but it might be enough to tell if Prowl had been tortured by Decepticons or Autobots.

"Well I've always been interested in Praxians. Their frame type is really interesting with those false wings of theirs." Bumblebee began cheerily.

"What?" Perceptor sounded nervous, but was clearly trying to hide it. Badly.

Bumblebee's smile widened, bright and innocent, though the attentive would see a gleam of cunning in those wide blue optics. "Ya know, their false wings. They can't fly like Seeker frames, or other flight frames, but they still have those almost wings on their backs. They can come in different sizes with different alt modes but always those almost wings. It is more than just the kibble some wear on their back, sometimes they blend so seamlessly with their altmode you can't tell where they end up, but always there." Bumblebee paused a moment, just smiling at him, watching the scientist shift uncomfortably.

"Yes, the Praxians are an unusual subset. Their sensor wings are unique to their frame type, the mysteries of their construction held as a jealous secret for so long that even now, especially with Praxus fallen, there are very few who understand them well enough to properly repair them." The scientist said getting more involved, this topic being an intellectual one he seemed to enjoy, but still slightly nervous, as if he knew, or at least feared, where Bumblebee's questioning was headed.

"Like you?" Perceptor actually flinched at Bumblebee's words, though the mini-bot's tone was light and gentle. "I've heard that you know somewhat of how to do repairs on Praxian, what did you call them? Sensor wings?"

Perceptor stumbled backward. "I don't... I don't know what you are talking about." He stammered, optics wide, hands shaking.

Bumblebee gave him his best, innocently confused look, helm tilting to one side. He could feel it close, the answers he craved, even if he was not liking how guilty the scientist was acting, and what that guilt implied. He wanted to think the best of his fellow Autobots but he'd have to be an idiot not to know something was up. "Are you okay Perceptor? You seem upset and confused. We were just talking about Praxian false wings. Don't you _remember_?" And there was terror in the other bot's eyes. Bumblebee felt a guilty pang go through him. This charade was cruel, and even if Perceptor was involved it was clear he only did so under duress. Bumblebee's optics hardened, expression going cold, better to be honest about this. "How often have you been repairing sensor wing hinges Perceptor? How long has this been going on?"

Perceptor's plating clamped down with an audible clang and his vents stuttered, optics wide with horror, haunted. "I... I.. I don't know anything! I just... the orders come in! it's just work. Have to help. I wasn't very good at it at first but I researched and got better. Beautiful things they are, even now I feel like I haven't quite got it exactly right, so intricate, more a work of artistry than engineering." His expression became almost rapturous as he shifted topics, avoiding that which made him uncomfortable.

"How long has this been going on Perceptor? Do you know who is doing it? Do you know who they are for?"

"Prowl." The crimson scientist answered immediately then looked away, embarrassed. "He is the only praxian left on base anymore. So few of that frame type left at all anymore. I... I don't know what is going on Bumblebee. I swear. I just... I just do the work. I don't know how long it has been going on. He just..." Perceptor paused and glanced around the room, as if checking for cameras or bugs. As if such a simple glance would reveal anything that wasn't hugely obvious to begin with. But he was quieter when he spoke again, a painfully obvious though nervous conspiratorial whisper. "Sometimes Prowl vanishes for a few orns, or a quartex or two. Usually after having a breakdown. Poor mech's unstable. Something isn't quite right in his processor. Comes from working too hard, no breaks. You have to rest, take care of yourself or things give way. Too much rests on him, he takes on more than his share of the workload."

Perceptor stopped and Bumblebee stared at him intently, optics lidded with suspicion. "Is there anything more you can tell me?" He prompted finally as the scientist began to shift uncomfortably again but didn't offer any more.

Perceptor hesitated. "I don't really know much, just... I'm not supposed to speak about this at all. It's all hush hush. It would be a blow to morale if everymech knew that the Autobot head of tactics had a few head screws loose." And he hesitated, hands flexing, clenching and opening. "Bumblebee... I know what I tell myself, but sometimes... I worry that something bad is going on. Really bad. Bumblebee, tell me I'm wrong. Tell me my suspicions are foolish and wrong. I've tried talking to Ratchet and Optimus and Ironhide, and even Blaster because the mech works with him so much, but the story is the same. Classified, don't snoop." He hesitated, trembling, looking down at his hands suddenly, opening them palm up with a haunted look in his optics. The sort usually only worn by new soldiers staring down at the energon splattered from the first time they'd actually had to kill. "I am a scientist." He whispered almost to himself. "I have dedicated my function to truth and learning, yet here I stand, scared to death of finding out a truth, telling myself a story that, granted, has quite some evidence to support it, but afraid to confirm it lest I find something else." He hesitated a moment longer and began to cry. Not sobbing, not at first, but cleanser fluid began to pool in the lower corners of his pentagonal optics, then spill out, tracing down his well crafted face.

Bumblebee's spark ached to watch. Something was wrong, horribly wrong here, but it wasn't Perceptor's fault at least. And however long he had had to be involved in this mess, it was eating the kind sparked scientist from the inside out. "I don't know what is going on Perceptor. But I fear my suspicions are similar to yours." He said and reached out, placing a gentle hand on the mech's blue-grey vambraces. Perceptor looked up into Bumblebee's optics, finding comfort in the compassion there. His vents stuttered again, Perceptor unable to keep them fully even, though he could prevent outright sobs.

"I... I just want to _help_ Bumblebee... but war... it is so terrible, and it never ends. They keep pushing me to make weapons but I just can't. I can't make things that will directly snuff the sparks of others. I became a scientist to help, not to hurt. But what have I been a part of? And I know even these engines I am working on, will simply be another tool to improve the Autobot's ability to kill Decepticons, even if the engines themselves don't directly kill anyone."

"I _Hate_ the war." He spat out after a moment, his normally kind, even voice full of sudden venom.

"We all do Perceptor. We all do." Bumblebee patted the larger mech and found himself being picked up in a hug. Blasted Bulks. Always with the picking up, as if wasn't bad enough being only slightly higher than hip high on the larger models. But Perceptor was distraught, and Bumblebee had been pushing on his emotions purposely, trying to crack him open like a cyber-duck egg. And he had, and now, now he owed it to the mech to help him. So he gave Perceptor a hug and focused on his own inner calm, letting it flow out of his field into that of the troubled scientist, slowly easing away the grief and strife.

"I just want to help." Perceptor said, fluid still leaking from his shuttered optics. "I don't want to hurt anyone."

"We wouldn't fight if the Decepticons would let us alone. But they won't stop until everyone is dead or slaves. So we fight. It would be wrong to leave the innocent to Megatron's non-existent mercy just because we don't want to hurt anyone."

"I wish things were different."

"We all do Perceptor. That is what makes us Autobots and not Decepticons."

Slowly the scientist relaxed, pulling his head out from where it had rested in the crook between Bumblebee's helm and shoulder. "Thank you Bumblebee. I... I am sorry I couldn't give you better answers to your questions." He said, wiping away the optical cleanser from his faceplate.

"Don't worry about it Perceptor. I am glad... I am glad that if something bad is going on, you at least are not part of it." Bumblebee said, giving the red bulk a comforting smile, field still smooth and gentle, pulsing peace into the mech. "Now... could you put me down?"

"What? Oh yes, sorry. I didn't mean to-"

"It is fine Perceptor. It's just... just something you bigger mechs do."

"How... how are you so incredibly comforting little one?"

Bumblebee gritted his denta, even though he knew the scientist meant no insult, but his field flared with his annoyance and the echo of past hurts and he was still standing too close for Perceptor to miss it. "Please don't call me little."

Perceptor held up his hands palms out in a sign of peace. "Sorry, I take it others have used it as an insult against you? But I am serious about the comforting thing. Usually only some of the best medics or Optimus Prime can... can do _that_. Do... do you mind coming in a couple times for some tests? I would really like to..." He shuffled his pedes nervously. "I mean, if you don't mind. Just... for scientific purposes."

"You... what?" Bumblebee stared at the mech as if he were speaking another language. "You want me to come visit you and comfort you?" He asked skeptically. Was the mech just using science as an excuse to...

"What? No not me, but I'll have to provide someone who is distraught then won't I?" He said more to himself then continued. "I wouldn't be able to properly get the readings and measurements if I was directly involved. No, and I'll have to design some equipment of course, to measure both you and the subject you are working on. Hm... would I use the slip-line capacitor or a Gausian switch?"

Scientists were nuts. "I dunno Perceptor. It's just something I can do. I mean, you care about others and they can feel it. Nothing special about me at all."

"Oh I am sure there is, even if it is just something that is a learned skill it could be very useful to-"

"Yeah, Perceptor? I've gotta go now. I'll see you later okay? Great." And with those words Bumblebee found himself once again fleeing Perceptor's lab.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next week, Prowl is forced to deal with a very persistent yellow almost stalker


	9. Broken Breaker

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Was asked what Jazz has been up to, he swallowed up the rest of the chapter. Ugh. This was unexpected, but it fits. Getting some hints as to why/how Jazz is what he is. His twisted mind, hints of terrible past. Conflicting truths and realities, lost in a maze of lies.  
> But next chapter, I promise, we'll have Bumblebee working his magic on Prowl

Jazz watched quietly. Still no Ops mission on his schedule so just the normal grind. Always ready for battle, watching waiting for the sirens to go off calling them all to the killing grounds. Laughing joking, watching monitors. Have fun, relax, joke, wait for the battle that might steal the mechs standing beside you forever. His praxian tactician was working again, so survival odds were better. Life was misery, but you clung to it with all you were. Life was pain. You lived in whatever distractions you could find.

The other mechs on the base fawning over him, praising him, laughing joking with him. What was hidden behind the happy faces? The ones who knew what he did to the tactician were open in their scorn, their hate-filled glances, or grief riddled resentment in the case of the Prime. But what about the others? Those who didn't know? How did they really feel about him? He was so eager to please, it made him so tired. Whatever it took for them to like him. If they didn't like him it was dangerous. You must appease those around you, bribe them not to attack, that was the nature of the real world. Be charming and poised, but he was still full of sharp edges, wild and reckless. He wanted things he could not name. He would not be owned. But his place was below the Prime and NightWave, the head of Spec Ops.

Why was his mind so tangled today? Why so emotional? Emotions were weakness, they got in the way. Disgusting things emotions, always interfering with things.

It was that stupid optic's fault. He'd been watching his pretty little praxian through tapped surveillance in the private room in the medbay. Seeing how the damaged tactician kept pausing and reaching up to touch the hole where the optic had been. At first it had been so wonderful to see how effective the treatment had been, seeing how each time it hollowed the praxian out, how the simple loss prevented anything from accumulating, no personality, turning away the little yellow minibot in favor of work, of performing his function. But Jazz felt a building unease, a restlessness deep in his spark. Even while he was entertaining the soldiers, doing his part to keep up morale, basking in their admiration and lifting their spirits, inside he was tangled in knots.

Emotions were weakness. Nasty things that got in the way. They made you make mistakes, and it wasn't safe to make mistakes. And yet there were sparks of jealousy inside him, sparks he didn't seem to be able to control or put out. Foolishness. Do not worry. The praxian avoided all personal contact.

And even if he didn't that shouldn't matter. Jazz only owned him for the sake of treatments, for ensuring his functionality. The rest of the time he belonged to the Prime. Jazz had no claim to him beyond that, it was not granted by their ruler. Yet the Prime had always favored him, a trusted and valuable tool. He had given Jazz the task to restore the vital tactical computer, at whatever cost, knowing the darkness inside Jazz, Jazz's ability to do anything. And then he seemed troubled by the results. Jazz had done a perfect job, done what their stupid false kindness and concern, their councilors and psychologists could not, and yet they resented him for it. He saved them all and they hated him. They were not so good and pure as they pretended. Perhaps they were jealous that he was the one who got to put the knives to the praxian, who got to savor his delicious pain. But they could not have done so good a job as he, no one could. That was why the Prime had put him in charge of it.

But why give him the praxian only during those times? It wasn't true ownership, just the maintenance of a weapon of war, and then he was so upset at Jazz for doing what he'd asked, as if Jazz hadn't accomplished the primary, and oh so necessary, goal.

Things were just so... so confusing with the Autobots. The lines of ownership and the hierarchies were so hard to see and understand. But that was why he had chosen to join the Autobots all that time ago wasn't it? He didn't want to be owned anymore, wanted to be free (though he knew there was really no such thing). And he'd said all the right words and they had let him in, the fools. Even the Prime, fooled.

Even after all this time he was far more comfortable working undercover among the Decepticons. They were cruel and vindictive, those higher up picking on those below them, but at least they made sense. Autobots never did. He never quite knew who was above or below him, and had eventually settled on only those specifically stated to be above him as above. Everyone else was therefore below him. But Autobots didn't pick on others just because they were below them in the hierarchy. So Jazz had adapted, and learned not to, though even a couple thousand vorns later he was still tempted to rip another mech's optics out for disagreeing with him. He knew what is was to be beaten on by those higher than him, it was the natural order of things. Pain was passed down the lines of hierarchy until you ended with the victims at the very bottom, so low they beat on each other depending on who was the lowest of the low that orn. That was how things always worked. Autobots were just better at hiding it, pretending to be so 'good' and 'moral'. They must, he knew it must be that way. It was a sickness to believe otherwise. Mercy and kindness never worked, they were merely a prelude to deeper abuse. Cheerful smiles hid the energon that dripped behind closed doors. The words that tore the spark apart. The pain and picking others apart.

"Jazz? Are you feeling alright?" Someone asked and Jazz stared at them, blinking slowly from behind his visor. Mistake! Danger! He had allowed his inner conflict to show outwardly.

Jazz forced a sickly smile onto his face. 'Yeah, never, never better.' He wanted to say, was the right thing to say. To show weakness was to die, torn apart by those below you in the hierarchy. But it was too vast a lie for him to pull off convincingly and... and Autobots weren't always like that? They defied the natural order of things, sometimes? His mind twisted and flicked. "Think... Think I'm gonna purge." He whispered hoarsely and rushed from the mess hall, heading for his private quarters. He barely made it to his private washracks before he was purging. He wiped his mouth after and turned on the spray to wash obsessively, as if the cleaning of the minor mess, and every speck of dust or grime from his plating, could wash away the turmoil inside him.

Emotions were stupid things. They made you think stupid things and make stupid mistakes. It wasn't safe. You had to be in control at all times, in control of everything, everyone you could reach. The world was a cold cruel unforgiving place, and those who smiled at him so cheerfully would all stick a knife into his back the moment they thought they could get away with it. He was only spared for his usefulness, by the whims of the Prime.

He scrubbed at his plating till it hurt, sensors beneath the smooth metal protesting the battering, paint starting to peel. No good. That was an obvious sign of mental stress. If they saw his paint peeling they'd know something was wrong, they'd know he was weak, vulnerable. It wasn't safe if anyone knew. They'd come after him, tear him apart, like fresh spilled energon in a sharkticon pit. Even the medics, they hated him so much.

Jazz tore his visor off in frustration and threw it against the wall, watching the tough poly-carbonate shell rebound and fall to the floor of his private washracks, making a small splash in the puddle forming due to the high fluid volume and inadequate drainage. With a snap he shut the spray off and slumped to the ground, balancing on the ends of his pedes curled up, arms wrapped tight around his knees as fluid continued to trail down his face. He stared at his reflection in the water, crimson optics staring back, the perfect Decepticon red.

 _My optics were blue once._  He recalled, processor moving sluggishly to access memories long buried and mostly ruined. _They say the optics are the window of the spark, and reflect the light of it. Blue for Primus; hope, kindness, love. Red for Unicron, the destroyer; hate, cruelty, arrogance._

 _Yes but who told you that? They were probably lying. Everyone lies for their own benefit._  He couldn't remember where the words came from. He did know his optics were his original ones, but he didn't know if they really had once been blue. _That is silly, how can one's optics change color. Foolishness, they are what they are, just like everything else in this world._  But still, staring at his reflection he could almost see an image in his own processor, his own face looking back at him, optics a bright and glowing blue, full of hope and excitement, a lust for life and all it held. _Life is nothing but pain and misery. Only a fool believes otherwise._  He knew that, he knew it was true. Knew it with every fiber of his being. But...

He didn't _want_  it to be true. He wanted the world to be brighter, kinder. Wanted it so much it _hurt_. If he had hope would his optics change? If he looked at the world differently would it really be visible from the outside? He remembered Weldjob, the medic he so enjoyed to torture, to tease the medical protocols with his own bloodthirsty predatory nature, the power he had to make the medic's work miserable. How he reveled in the medic's impotence, and watching as his words tore the mech apart from the inside. Those optics flickered now, as they had not in many vorns past, whenever he spoke particularly incisive words. He mentally reviewed the files yet again. Bright Autobot blue momentarily replaced by dull hate-filled crimson, then back to blue again. Maybe, just maybe, the old audio file held some truth, maybe a mechanism's optics weren't naturally colored but the spark behind them made them so?

 _Go on._  His reflection seemed to urge. _You can do it. Just a little hope? Trade your despairing red for blue. Surely it wouldn't hurt to try?_  Oh but it would hurt to try, even if no one knew, if no one saw his weakness. It would hurt to try and if he forgot how the world really worked he would show more weakness, this sickness in his mind to others, and they would tear him apart.

The problem was that he _wanted_  to believe what he saw. He _wanted_  to believe there were people who cared about others, that the easiness between the Autobots wasn't feigned. He wanted to forget what he knew, what the cruelties of his life had taught him, and to let himself hope.

But no, he could not, would not forget. He _knew_  how the world worked. He would not be fooled by appearances. Prime was the strongest, the leader, he set the game all beneath him would play. And if this was the game the Prime wanted to play, the happy nice Autobots who _cared_  about others, Jazz would be the best at it. He'd be the model Autobot, smile and pretend to like everyone else, pretend the whole Autobot cause wasn't just a huge lie. He'd play the game better than anyone else, he wouldn't make a single mistake. He couldn't afford to. Because if he made a single mistake he'd be punished. He'd deserve to be punished. And he knew what punishment they wanted for him.

Maybe it would be better to just run away, where no one could find him. Except that would reveal his weakness, and if you ran they would have to pursue. It was the natural order of things. They were predators, all of them were. All were predators or prey, and the only way to tell the difference was who was running toward and who was running away. They would catch him and kill him. And if they didn't he would starve anyway. Life was misery and pain, but you clung to it with all you had.

No, Jazz resolved, he wouldn't be prey again, never again, so he would be a predator. He'd fool them all, bare his fangs and hide his fear and confusion. He would not be fooled by appearances, he would not be taken in by their lies and show weakness to be exploited. If the Prime, their leader wanted to play 'sweet innocent Autobots' he'd play the part of the best Autobot ever, he'd never give them an excuse to get rid of him. He wouldn't make a mistake.


	10. First Day Back

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the long wait.
> 
> Prowl is finally out of medbay, let's see what his work looks like now.  
> Bumblebee is doing his best to be a yellow stalkerbot.  
> But, ya'know, the friendly kind.

The door to Prowl's office opened with a soft whir of disengaging locks. Once his office had been like any other, but as his role in the war had changed, as he had taken on more and more responsibility, his office had changed to fit that. True the desk was still there, and a chair, and even his 'in' and 'out' boxes, though now they were in part slots in the wall attached to chutes and a complex system allowing datapads to flow in and out without opening the door and disturbing him. Some reports were still made in person, but mostly his office was now just a work area. Now that he was no longer SiC, those responsibilities shifted to someone else, he was set to focus solely on the tactical aspects of the war. But even before his rank had been changed the office had begun its metamorphosis as he found his own internal databanks insufficient to hold all the pertinent data for his work. He'd already had three upgrades to increase his internal storage capabilities, and trying to put in any more would require frame reconstruction. So he'd acquired a large external database, stowing it under his desk out of sight, and keeping extra data there that he didn't use much.

That had been over a hundred vorns ago. Now his office was full, endlessly humming machinery, cooling fans whirring at their lowest setting even now as the beast slept. His apprentices called it The Tower, after archaic computer models that had been upright, and in a way it did sort of look that way, filling the back half of the room all the way to the high ceiling. It loomed over anyone who entered, dark and foreboding like some primal monster. Those who knew of it treated it as such while those who knew it more intimately steered clear as they would the Pit itself. It had already claimed the lives of almost a dozen Decepticon spies who had tried to hack it, and it was even better protected now than it had been then. Even the most power-hungry of those who were trained tacticians, trained under Prowl himself or otherwise, didn't dare try to access it after the third smoking husk was dragged out of Prowl's office, all major systems melted and fused, processor a molten lump of slag. To connect to The Tower without permission was to die a horrible death.

Still it would have been reckless to key the massive database to one mech alone, so each of those tacticians he had trained possessed a key and a symbol, two things that would allow them to begin the process of becoming the new master of The Tower should Prowl fall in battle. Each input output port and cable had a tiny symbol scratched into it, and each successor's given symbol could be paired with one of those to tell them where they could link in. Then was the prompt, the key Prowl had given them giving the answer only when integrated with their memories, to ensure the key could not be used by anyone else. And after proving their identity there was the challenge, two breems to solve correctly, different depending on the student and different each initialization, to prove their skill, their worthiness to be the next Autobot Head of Tactics. Naturally failure at any point of the assessment led to almost immediate death as deadly viruses uploaded into the hacker and destroyed them from the inside out. All those who he had trained to be able to succeed him had the danger explained to them, and the smoking husks of would be hackers provided a perfect illustration of the danger they would risk when they tried to succeed him when the time came. None of them would try while he still lived. And he had a feeling that many of them would not have the guts to make the attempt after he died knowing that if The Tower found them unworthy they would die horribly. But being the Autobot Head of Tactics required resolve and iron will just as much as intellect and skill. He was satisfied knowing that if he perished in battle, even if his battle computer was lost, The Tower would remain, providing endless information supporting and ensuring a worthy successor.

In the end Prowl had been quite satisfied with his solution and safeguards of this most valuable of resources. If the Decepticons got this data they could have destroyed the Autobots in a single vorn. It would have been a terrible weakness and he had used it as a trap to destroy some of the Decepticon's best agents. And when the Decepticons had finally gotten wise to how deadly any hacking attempt was, and one of their agents had simply carved out one of the physical hard drives, Prowl had allowed the mech to escape with his prize, turning to repair the damage while other Autobots reeled in shock at the order to let the spy escape. But instead of terrible things happening there was only silence, and later Autobot spies confirmed that the Decepticons were having no success breaking the encryption. After 10 vorns even Soundwave had given up. All the data was stored in a language of numbers only Prowl himself understood. No one could steal the information, and only the worthy could access it, even Prowl having to answer and pass the challenges each time he accessed the database.

Prowl heaved a soft contented sigh as the door closed behind him, the many locks engaging, leaving him alone with his endless database. This was his private sanctum. Here there was no master, no rules, no failure. No expectations no fear no demands made of him. Only the numbers, the data, the machines that ran the war. This was the only place where he felt completely safe, the only place where he was only himself, and it didn't matter if he was Prowl or a replacement Prowl, or anything else. It was only him, and the numbers, and truth.

He strode across the room silently, spark humming softly, not happy but free of its usual weight of misery. Already his thoughts were dissolving into their component numbers, prepping new data for integration and for the challenges that were coming. He opened the many panels all throughout his frame exposing the multitude of data cables and ports, more than was usual even for tactical models, and sat carefully in the chair, unspooling cables to plug into the many ports built into the custom chair he'd had assembled as a primary interface with The Tower. Already the challenges were coming from the massive database and he completed them one by one, proving his identity, as he settled his wings into the slots designed for them. All his cables were linked in now, his processor already integrating with the massive computer that loomed behind him in a comforting dark bulk. Cooling fans were starting to speed up a bit as the beast awoke, data flowing between mech and machine.

Prowl settled his bracers on the arms of the chair and rested his helm back against the headrest. A flick of a switch and the chair engaged, clamping down around him, thrusting jacks into each of his exposed dataports. His awareness of his frame began to fade as The Tower all but swallowed him, data running at a frantic pace through every wire and linkage. The sting of electricity faded as he lost himself in the world of numbers. New data garnered since his last linkup was evaluated and compared to previous. Profiles were updated, of people and places and groups. The deceased were enumerated and their profiles shifted into the graveyard while the connotations and natures of their final moments were weighed and effects calculated and applied to all the profiles of all those who had known them in life. Results of the recent battles were evaluated and stored. Tactical maps were drawn and modified and updated, evaluations made of the strategies employed by both sides. Reports were drafted and data prepped then sent out. Faintly he could hear the soft thunk of a datapad dropping into the out slot that led out of his barricaded office. First one of the day, there would be many to follow. For a brief moment something like pleasure drifted through his aching spark. He was serving his function, doing his part. He was being useful.

Be useful, just don't make any mistakes. If he made a mistake he would deserve to be punished. Deep inside of him something squirmed and fought then fell silent again. This was the truth of the world. If he made a mistake he deserved to be punished. His spark felt cold, collapsing in on itself into a tight painful ball. But he could not let anything stop or slow his work, to waste time would incur punishments too. _I just want the pain to stop._ No, don't think, no time to waste on personal thoughts and feelings like that. A cold chain looped around his spark, he had made a mistake already. He would just have to work all the harder to make up for the lost time. Maybe he could hide the mistake with hard work. If he just worked harder, was just _better_ , maybe the pain, maybe the punishments could stop.

He had been gone so long, almost five quartexes. He'd started on the data while still in medbay but there was still so much in his inbox here too, and so much to reintegrate into the expanded data base. Only after he'd integrated the new information would he be able to properly update the numbers he kept in his internal database for on-the-go tactical calculations, the numbers that said how much each individual could take before they broke. Numbers that described how they worked and fought and cooperated individually and with groups. That described strengths and weaknesses, personality types and flaws, combat ability and social standing. Everything important, everything that affected a mech's ability to fight and interaction with others on the battlefield boiled down to a series of numbers that allowed his over powered tactical computer to perceive and plot and race and protect the Autobots from brutal defeat that should have happened a thousand vorns ago. The full data of every mechanism involved in the war lived inside The Tower, everything from preferred energon to accuracy percentages with all projectile weapons. Their relationships their physiological status their previous assignments, all the data that could be found was stored in The Tower in full. Those vast stores of data flowed in and around and through him as he analyzed and updated and evaluated. And one by one, point by point, he began to distill that immense information into the series of complex numbers that was all the information his tactical computer needed to run the calculations that governed Autobots Tactics.

The third alarm was what finally got him to disengage from his wonderful terrible world of numbers and return to cold reality and the looming threat of punishment for his mistakes. If he ignored the third alarm, as he did the first and second ones that alerted him to the end of his shift, the medics would come and cut him free of The Tower. They had done it before and it had caused both him and the complex database damage. But medics were stubborn and they were right, if he stayed locked into the Tower too long the strain on his systems could become problematic.

Slowly his consciousness returned to his frame, the streams of data shutting off one by one. He triggered the disengage function of his modified chair from inside The Tower on his way out of the massive database, trickling back into the frame that was approximately his. He let out a soft groan as the interface jacks were pulled out of his dataports, as tiny mechanical arms plucked his datacables from interface points in the chair, forcibly disconnecting him from The Tower as he tried to get used to the feel of the frame around him. He had been too deep too long, pushing too hard. The data from his sensor net wasn't making sense. Ratchet would be displeased. _Another mistake._ A soft cruel voice whispered in his mind and he groaned again, tempted to curl in on himself in misery. Instead he forced himself to move, sensor wings jerking, hands curling and uncurling, knees twitching. The datastreams were beginning to resolve into sensations and he got a ping from Ratchet.

{I am disconnected.} He reported to the CMO, relieved that he was, had managed to do so before the impatient medic had come to bash down his door.

{You are late, if I hadn't had a minor emergency to deal with here I would have already been there having Ironhide tear the door down for me.} The CMO grumbled disapprovingly. {It is your first orn back on full duty, get to bed as soon as you can walk straight and do not link in tomorrow until a joor after your shift starts, and don't you _dare_ stay late tomorrow understand?}

{Yes sir.} Prowl winced slightly optics dull with misery. He was being crimped in his ability to fulfill his function. But he must obey, he would just have to find a way to get enough done in spite of the restrictions.

{Don't 'sir' me Prowl.} The head medic grumbled. {Get some rest.}

Prowl closed his optics and sighed then opened them again. Most of his sensory input was making sense now but his visual feed was still faulty. Or... was it?

Left optic: no response.

A white hand drifted up and he felt the smooth metal of a patch over the place where his optic had once been. A sharp pain went through his spark like a energon blade. The last connection to the mech he had once been, who Prowl had once been, before the war and his master had robbed him of everything that had made the mech who he had been. It was gone. Forever. Destroyed for his sins. A faint keen welled up inside and he glanced up briefly at the door. But this was his private sanctum, the only place in all the universe where he could be fully safely alone. The only place where he didn't have to hide the pain inside for the sake of not disturbing others with his pathetic suffering. The keening raised in volume, trapped inside the soundproofed walls, bouncing around only a couple times before the sound was gone, too weak to exist long. His master would know, another black mark against him. But at least here it had disturbed none else so the small lapse might be forgiven. Prowl stared down at the hands at the ends of his arms. Hands that could not fix all that he broke, could not repair what he ruined with his endless mistakes and petty selfish weaknesses. Somehow, somehow he just had to be better, do better, _be_ better.

If only he knew how.

Somehow, no matter how hard he tried, he always made mistakes. And then he deserved to be punished. He couldn't break free of the cycle. Weak, flawed, insufficient. But he would keep trying. The Autobots needed him. He mustn't fail them.

A small warmth flickered deep inside his spark, so deep he could barely feel it anymore through the cold numbing despair. He still loved the Autobots, still wanted to help and protect them. He might be useless and hopelessly weak and flawed, but he would still try, with all he had, to keep them all safe.

 

 

It was in this mood, that tiny flicker almost warming that deepest part of his spark, that something strange happened on his walk back to his quarters.

He'd walked the path so many times he didn't require conscious effort to do so, his subsystems directing frame movement to carry him to his quarters for quick refueling and serious recharge. His proximity sensors patched through his subsystems neatly with the details only Praxian sensor wings gave meant he could identify and avoid anyone or anything on his path without having to look or listen, the sub-processor at the base of his wings simply streaming the data and controlling the motions as his central processor continued to whir and reflect on his work, formulating plans and evaluating transfers and troop/supply movements.

So at first he didn't notice the yellow minibot lounging against the wall. His sub-processor detected the obstruction and focused on it, carefully avoiding it and, recognizing it as a mech, watching it for movement to block him. But as he drew near he heard the voice and after the third repeat of his name he startled so badly he nearly fell over. He halted midstep and turned his helm to look at the minibot, again his lone optic being assailed by the sheer yellowness of the mech. The smile and lighting up of expression on the other's face confirmed that calling his name had not been an accident but, for some inexplicable reason, the minibot had been _trying_ to get his attention. Prowl stared at him dumbly, processor whining softly with the impending logic crash.

But this yellowness... Prowl frowned. This was the same mech who had been visiting him in the medbay, who had been trying to visit and he'd turned away. And here he was again. He ran a quick calculation. His behavior and turning the other away _should_ have sent the other packing, discouraged. The mech _should_ have lost interest after the first couple times, the others-

Error Error

Data inaccessible

Prowl's lone optic flickered as power came back. Something had triggered a minor crash and soft reboot. Probably linking to forbidden or corrupted memories or something. Regardless. Oh, the mech was talking to him. He tried to parse the sounds into words but it was a struggle.

"-you know?" The bright yellow mech finished and smiled brightly at him, standing away from the wall now, straight and tall, almost formal in posture without being stiff. Respectful. Prowl frowned. Respecting him? Automatically he turned his head, sensor wings flicking as he scanned the hall for who the mech was actually addressing, directing that respect at. That it could be him did not cross his mind, the idea of another respecting him having been thoroughly beaten out of him by his master's harsh hands.

But there was no one else in the hall, just as his sub-processor had reported before. Prowl directed his gaze at the minibot again, who had now tilted his helm to one side inquisitively, puzzlement obvious in his bright blue optics. But he wasn't speaking now, waiting for Prowl to make the next move. Something was required of him. His processor scrambled for the correct response, fear of failure lancing through him like lightning. "I apologize. Were you speaking to me?" He said, aware of how awkward it sounded. Perhaps that was a good thing, the sooner the mech got frustrated and gave up, the better. It was better others did not waste their time on him. He was beneath notice, and he had so much to do, and there was so much room to make mistakes when you let personal things creep in. Without his knowing his sensor wings had drifted down into a faint submissive cant, his blank field pulling in tight as faint notes of terror hummed through him.

"Yes actually." The minibot chuckled. "Who did you think I was talking to mech? No one else is here really." He said so cheerfully it made Prowl's processor whirl, faint little tickling happening deep inside him that he didn't dare allow himself to analyze. No one cared about him, no one.

"You are correct of course. There is no one else here." He replied voice blank as he accessed his databanks, trying to figure out who this yellow mech was and why he was here on the Iacon base and following him. He kept the standard military profiles of all those on base in his internal databanks in case he ever had to deal with them personally rather than just in tactical settings. Lets see. New to the base. Minibots. There, yellow, correct frame type and size, friendly disposition. Bumblebee.

Prowl scanned the profile of the small yellow minibot and again his thoughts caught on a word. Gentle. Not kind, gentle. Not that kind wasn't there, but kind was a word overused to the point where it no longer held any meaning to the tactician.

Gentle. There were connotations to that word, layers of something else, beyond just kind or thoughtful. Suddenly it seemed the most beautiful word Prowl had ever heard. His spark ached and he could feel cleansing fluid building up in his optic. Gentle. Would this little bot treat him with gentleness despite the awful monster he was? Despite his crimes and mistakes, the endless sparks extinguished forever, would he be kind and gentle though Prowl deserved only pain? Stupid, stupid thoughts and feelings. He couldn't think like this. That wasn't how the world worked. Other people received kindness and gentle treatment because they deserved it, because they did not do such crimes, make such mistakes as he did. No one, no one would be gentle or even kind to him if they knew what he was really like.

"Whoa. Prowl? What's wrong? Are you.. crying?" Prowl flinched back from the small grey hand reaching out for him, danger protocols flaring in warning. Attack! He was under attack? He stumbled backward, frame clumsy still from his processor being so deeply immersed in The Tower all orn. "Whoa, hey! I'm not going to hurt you." And there was _worry_ in that voice.

It was too much, all these things that shouldn't be. No one cared about him. No one, the others who had-

Error Error

Data inaccessible

There had been others he had once believed had cared. They had not though, they had hurt him. This would be the same. If others acted like they cared it was a trap? Wasn't it? Gentle. Bumblebee was gentle. He wanted. He wanted.

It was wrong to want. He did not deserve any kindness or gentleness. He turned and headed away, his frame shaking. "It's late." He said, voice dull, aching terror deep inside him. So worn out, maybe Ratchet was right and he had pushed too hard today. "Have to recharge." And it was only an act of will that kept him from actually running from the yellow mech.

"Prowl?" The voice called out from behind.

"You should be resting too." He replied, optic focused straight ahead in almost tunnel vision as he focused on his destination. But inside his mind and spark were in turmoil as Bumblebee's words and actions were reviewed over and over, replayed again and again from the strange soothing beat that he had heard in the medbay when he couldn't even parse the words, to that gentle touch, the fingers gently stroking his hand. Gentle, comforting, in a world all too bare of comfort.

No don't think about it, don't think that another would offer you comfort. Even if he did you don't deserve such at thing.

But deep in his spark, Prowl wanted it, wanted it more than anything.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Inaccessible data from before, when there _were_ others who cared about him. Thanks to Jazz those memories have been horribly corrupted. He couldn't let Prowl think he had _friends_.


End file.
